St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies: Part 2

St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies: Part 1Part 1

Chapter 3

I did not resist. That might surprise you. From what you’ve read up until now, you might have gained the impression that I was one of those girls who liked to oppose, to break the rules. A bit of a rebel. And I was… in a way. I liked to enjoy myself and follow my desires and, if that meant breaking the rules, then so be it. But I’d worked out from a very young age that resistance does not pay. There are girls who fight their destiny every step of the way. All they do is draw attention to themselves and get frustrated. I, on the other hand, would always outwardly comply and then, when no one was watching, do what I wanted whilst they were all dealing with the rebels. It was a strategy that had served me well.

Until that day.

I was taken to the bathroom and showered. Then I was stripped and put into my new uniform. There was a sleeveless cotton shift, cotton stockings and cotton gloves. All in white of course, the symbol of virginity. I put them on with a smile and then suffered the next item: stays. The maid tightened them and I grimaced but stayed silent. Why would I not? I needed to become invisible and complaining about stays would not achieve that. Besides, I was used to them; all girls in our society are, and, in a way, I welcomed them. Who doesn’t want an alluring figure? She laced me down to around 25” and then tied them off. Annoying but nothing more.

Then came the unexpected bit. She took my gloved arms and guided them behind my back. Then she got a pair of cuffs separated by a chain and cuffed my wrists. This worried me slightly: I was hoping to divest myself of these incumbrances – and possibly even this school – at the earliest possible opportunity, but any such action would be infinitely harder with cuffed wrists.

“Is there a purpose to these cuffs, maid?” I enquired, careful to sound more curious than annoyed.

“Of course, miss. They are mandatory for all students.”

“I see.” I did not see, of course, or at least, I was only just starting to. Then I worked it out. Had I not been dumped in this place under the influence of Lady Helen and was not she a new devotee of that ridiculous Leisure Ideal? So, this was a school that made young Ladies of Leisure and I was to be its latest victim! “Are the cuffs to help achieve the Leisure Ideal, maid?” I asked.

“Yes miss, that is precisely the point. And to increase one’s piety, for Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.”

Quite how that quote worked when she was making my hands even more idle, I couldn’t quite see, but I kept quiet, thinking this new development over in my mind. A Lady of Leisure. How was I to cope with… and get out of being… that?

Don’t get me wrong here, I was not totally against the Leisure Ideal. Indeed, there is something to be said of a system which means that other people wait on you hand and foot and do everything for you. No hard work anymore, and everyone knows that a damsel in distress is irresistible to any man. Plus, they did look extremely elegant. No, the ideal of being bound at a soiree or garden party and having some young beau feed me or walk me around the grounds was rather appealing.

But only for a few hours. The thought of being entirely helpless and dependent for the majority of the day, no, that was something else. Something that I did not welcome. Still Jessica, keep your head down and a solution will appear.

My wrists cuffed behind me; she then fitted another unexpected item: a white posture collar. This was laced like a mini corset for my neck and, when it was fitted, I found my head tilted back so that I had to look down to see in front of me. This truly was an unwelcome addition, particularly since she tightened it greatly, causing my breath to rasp and feel short. Then she turned her attentions to my stays again, knocking another couple of inches off them which caused me to be extremely short of breath and my breasts to be heaving up and down lewdly in their cups.

Following this, a plain white dress was brought out and fitted to me. It was nothing to speak of, being unadorned and rather ugly, save for one aspect: it left my arms bare.

Then the difficult bit came.

A short chain was attached to the one between my wrists which was then, in turn, attached to a hook on the back of my neck corset, wrenching my arms upwards painfully till they sat just below my shoulders. Here I did cry out, involuntarily, but the maid said nothing, instead securing the chain and then using some sort of rachet to shorten the other chain between the two wrists, bringing them closer together. That done, she then brought out another set of cuffs which she fitted just above each elbow and these two were linked by a chain which she then proceeded to rachet shorter until it was taut and caused me considerable discomfort. Finally, she took out a cover in cotton which she covered the arm arrangement with, lacing it shut and attaching it to my gown. I was in some pain and totally immobilised.

I was led over to the bed and a pair of boots brought out. Made of white leather and reaching to just below my knees, they incorporated heels higher than any I had worn before. Without my arms for balance, how could I balance in them. I was about to ask the maid this question, when she popped something in my mouth. It was a gag which she fastened behind my neck. This wasn’t right. This seriously wasn’t right. She laced up the boots and then helped me stand. I felt so unsteady, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, teetering in the air, unable to see the floor within six feet of me due to the ridiculous collar.

It was then that it began to sink in. I was restricted all over, hardly able to stand and to see. My waist was squeezed and my voice silenced. Worst of all though was the arms. This was no usual Lady of Leisure arm configuration. They bundled them up in gigot sleeves or wore them in a monoglove. This was something else, another level. For the first time I began to wonder whether I would be able to slip away when the spotlight was away from me.

“I’ll escort you to the headmistress now,” said the maid putting her arm around me to stop me from falling.


Chapter 4

“Here at St. Brigid’s, we present our girls with seven sacred gifts. They combat the seven cardinal sins and help bring about the seven cardinal virtues. These gifts will bring you closer to God and embed within you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.”

I was sitting in her office again, but this time things were totally different. There were no niceties now and, in their place, the fire of faith blazed in her eyes. This was a lady on a mission; she was here to save my soul. Whether I wanted it saving or not was immaterial.

I had a myriad of questions to ask her, but I stayed silent. With the gag filling my mouth, I had no choice. Directly above her desk there was a mirror. I considered that a queer place to hang a mirror – on the ceiling – but my head tilted as it was, it worked. I could see myself, or at least, what I had become, my head wrenched heavenwards, my arms immobilised, and my mouth filled. In the mirror I noticed that the gag was embroidered on the front panel, yet I struggled to make out the text in the double distance between the high ceilings and me. ‘But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.’ It was a quote from the Bible. It was my new reality.

In lieu of being able to ask, I glared at her the best that I could. She got the message.

“You are new to this school, Miss Fitzgerald, and thus are unaware of the rules. Rules formulated to help you attain your seven sacred gifts. However, you should be told that one of them is that downward glances are forbidden. To look at me as you are doing now is a sin and it will be punished as such. The collar encourages you to gaze heavenwards to your true home. This infraction is forgiven as it was due to your ignorance. However, downward gazes henceforth will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”

I shifted my gaze back up to the mirror.

“I speak of these heavenly gifts and glorious they are, but they shall only be outlined to you once attained. They are gifts to be earned, and until then the journey and mystery are to be savoured. Do not fret. You are already working on several of them through your attire. I appreciate that they are a trial, I do, but trials are to be borne to achieve eternal life. Salvation could not have come about without the Cross. These trials are your cross and I am sure you will bear them with great joy.

“That said, I shall elaborate a little on one of them. That is your arms. You may have surmised that your arms are being rendered immobile, like those of a Lady of Leisure such as the blessed Lady Helen who guided your beleaguered parents to my door. However, you are not merely destined to become a Lady of Leisure, Miss Fitzgerald. Oh no, your destiny is to become far more, something far nobler and greater. Ladies of Leisure accept restraint for worldly reasons: beauty, grace, status. You, however, offer your bound state as a prayer, a supplication to Christ in thanks. That is why your mode of binding is different. You shall not be wearing a monoglove here but instead, your arms are being trained to accept the graceful and pious reverse prayer configuration. Yes indeed, give thanks to God, for your hands shall be permanently placed together, palm-to-palm, behind your neck, in prayer. This will take some training, but we have three weeks before the other students return and we shall use those weeks productively. We have a rule here that no student is allowed without first having attained reverse prayer, thus you shall be isolated from all humanity until you have done so. Only then will you be introduced to your sisters in Christ with great joy.”

She did not lie. I was led back to my room and for the next three weeks I met no one save for my maid. I was dressed in the mornings and my arm bindings tightened so that they remain taut and extremely painful, but, inch by excruciating inch, the reverse prayer configuration was attained. At first the wrists were pulled close so that my palms did rest together as if in wilful devotion. Then, the chain between my elbows was slowly shortened until they too sat snugly side by side, the whole ensemble compact, uncomfortable and, dare I say, rather elegant. Finally, the chain between the wrists and my neck was shortened until my fingers brushed their long-fought goal. Not that I felt it due to the rigid collar, but they were there.

And that was it. Nothing else. Well, except for daily mass and then the thrice-daily Angelus prayers. At other times the maid would read me a passage from the Bible, but that was it. Most of the time I sat and stared at the ceiling.

It was hard. Intolerably hard. Firstly, I had to sleep with my arms ensconced so. I had to lie on my side and even that was uncomfortable. For the first week I hardly slept at all.

Worse than that was the toilet. When I wanted to go, I had to tap my foot on the floor. Then the maid would wordlessly help me to stand and lead me to the bathroom. She would not only see to my dress but also dry and powder my bottom afterwards. It was so humiliating. My gag was not removed through the entire process. I was not to make a peep. My gaze skyward was not to even flutter.

Indeed, the only time my gag was removed was for mealtimes and mass. At meals it was made clear that I was to say nothing beyond, “Thank you Lord for the body and bread we eat,” every time I was spoon-fed a morsel or bite, and “Thank you Lord for the waters we drink,” every time I was given something to sip.

It was purgatory.

Nor was that all. I also noticed that my boots were changed at the end of every week, having an inch or so added to their heels and, after a couple weeks, my neck corset was changed for a new one that was slightly longer and tighter and held my gaze even more towards the ceiling. By the time that the three-week period was over and I had attained the tight reverse prayer configuration, I found that I was tottering about on my very tiptoes, unsteady with every assisted step, and of course quite unable to check my footing.

Chapter 5

What can I tell you now about my St. Brigid’s trials? Well, I suppose the fact is that this is where they truly began, since this was the day when I formally became a pupil there. I was taken to the school hall and there, along with all the other girls, we were given a start of year lecture by the headmistress.

There were not many of us. I learned that St. Brigid’s was, in all essence, a new establishment. The buildings were not new of course; looking like some creepy old castle, it had actually been a convent before for a silent community of Carmelite nuns, but the order had grown exponentially in recent years and so had moved to a larger premises and, in their stead, this new sort of Catholic girls’ school had been established, meshing together the ancient notions of feminine piety with the more recent Leisure Ideal. The long-term goal was to have around a hundred students, all training to maximise their piety and minimise their sin through the granting of the Seven Sacred Gifts, with them entering aged seven or eight and leaving at twenty-one (or when a marriage or entry into a convent had been arranged).

That though, was for the future. The first class of five had started two years ago; ten more had joined a year later and my intake had fifteen. St. Brigid’s was growing and for that we were to give thanks and praise.

The older girls – from the occasional glances I could steal of them – looked much the same as I did, heads turned up towards heaven, mouths securely gagged, feet forced into the elegant yet painful high heels, but their reverse prayer bondage was neater and more compact, tight to their backs, and draped through their useless fingers was an unmistakable set of rosary beads.

These, I soon learned, were a gift to all new entrants into the school and, once the introductory prayers and speech were over, each of us new students was made to walk – or mince and stumble – up to the headmistress who ceremonially presented us with our own set of beads to hold ad infinitum. This marked our formal induction into the school.

There was then much talk about the Seven Sacred Gifts which would be bestowed upon all of us. What these actually were was not outlined, but it was made clear that the rosary was not one of them. However, we were then told that all the new intake had earned the first of the gifts. Curious, I stared heavenwards as several of my new classmates were led to the front and, after some fumbling and a round of applause from all but us students, were declared to have completed the acceptance of this unspecified gift which was said, “to counter the cardinal sin of sloth since it necessitates effort in even the simplest of actions, and encourages the cardinal virtue of diligence symbolised by the fact that your walking now requires carefulness and persistent effort!”

These vague explanations did not help me one iota, so I simply waited until I too was called forward. When I was, my maid helped me up and to the front where I was instructed to sit down. I duly did this and my skirts were hitched up and my left boot removed. Following this, the same was done to my right boot and then the headmistress held up an object before my upturned eyes. It was a new pair of boots, also in white leather but embroidered with my name and, most alarmingly, incorporating not the usual high heels, but instead an arrangement that kept my feet on their tiptoes like those of a ballet dancer. They looked impossibly elegant but how on earth could I ever be expected to walk in them?

Regardless of my concerns, they were solemnly laced onto my feet and then my maid helped me to stand. Although I was used to tottering heels by now, these were something else entirely and I felt so unsteady, so unsure as I stood there without my arms to balance me. The teachers and guests all clapped and I tottered back to my place, wondering how on earth I would ever get used to this latest encumbrance.

Yet get used to it I did. The God-given body and mind has a remarkable capacity for adaptation, particularly when young, and within days I could walk unaided on these stilts, even though it took me a full six months or more to do so with elegance. The pain though, was not insignificant. At night the boots were removed but immediately replaced by a night-time version which were identical save that they had no heels. Wearing them I was bed bound, but then that was how it should be, I was told. What use has a young lady for nocturnal wanderings? Such freedoms are merely an invitation to sin. But I say, these boots gave me such cramps in the calves and thighs that did not lessen for months. I hated them even though I had to admit that the look they gave me was dashed elegant.

But enough of my restrictions, what of my new classmates I hear you ask? Well, to tell the truth, I can say little. Silenced as we were most of the time and staring at the ceiling as we were continually, I interacted with them little and saw them less than that. Nonetheless, every evening after class, we were allowed to socialise with members of our own intake in the common room for two hours. This involved us all sitting in high chairs staring at the magnificent ceiling murals which depicted the story of the adulteress in the gospels, and listening to one another. I soon learned to recognise the voices of Anne, Catherine, Theresa, Sheila, Barbara, Elizabeth and the others, but since our interactions were so limited, then I could hardly call them friends.

One though, truly became an enemy and her name was Mary. She was a second-year student who had a broad Irish accent and seemed to have an aversion to English girls who she viewed, for some incomprehensible reason, as the enemy. During our socialisation periods she pointedly ignored me and blanked me when I spoke to her and so, rather angered, I informed her honestly that she needed to improve her manners. To my suggestion, she merely laughed and I thought nothing more of it, resolving to not concern myself with such a low-bred dimwit, but then, the following morning, after Theology, as we were mincing into the dining hall, something clattered into me from the side and I crashed to the floor, my maid trying to catch me but merely managing to cushion the fall, so unexpected was this attack.

In an instance, a teacher was upon us. “Such unladylike behaviour! Who is to blame for this outrage?!”

“Miss Mary barged herself into Miss Jessica!” my maid exclaimed.

“Liar!” countered another voice whom I assumed to be Mary’s maid. “Miss Jessica deliberately barged into my mistress, trying to hurt her!”

“This is quite intolerable. We shall decide who is at risk this evening by invoking the serpent! I shall inform the headmistress immediately!”

At these words the maids and other pupils gasped, but I heard Mary’s maid whisper, “This will be fun! My mistress loves the serpent and always triumphs!” before walking away with her charge.

The serpent? What was that and what was facing me? Later that afternoon, after class, I soon learned. Catherine, a friendly girl from Belfast informed me, “My sister is in the year above us and she has told me all about the serpent. It is an ordeal Jess, I am sorry to say, and I have heard that Mary faced it several times last year and used her skills to triumph every time.”

“But what is it?”

“I do not know exactly, except that the serpent is Satan. It is the one who tried to tempt Christ in the wilderness and who succeeded in getting Eve to give Adam the forbidden fruit in the garden. The serpent tries to tempt you both into sin and the one who succumbs is punished since she, having proved her absence of morality, must have been the guilty party.”

I soon learned what this serpent was, and my shock at the reality of the rite is still with me.

Following socialisation, the entire school was brought into the hall. All the other students were made to sit on chairs in a large circle and then curious glasses with angled mirrors affixed to the top of them were placed over their eyes. Initially, their purpose confused me, but then I realised: wearing such a device, even a girl with her eyes raised heavenwards could observe the punishment without committing a sin.

I, however, was not given such a pair of glasses. Instead, in front of the entire assembly, I was divested of all my clothing save for my en-pointe boots, stays, and neck corset. The shame I felt with my breasts and sex on display for all to see, even if it were a congregation of my own gender, is indescribable. But it was also confusing: here of all places I expected to be kept in utmost modesty! What was to come next?

And all the while this was happening, my classmates, who’d had their gags removed, sang hymns of praise to the purity of the Virgin.

I was ordered to sit. Directly opposite me and similarly naked sat Mary. Then the headmistress began: “We are all sinners. From the moment that our ancestor Eve took the apple from the serpent in the garden and presented it to her lord and master to eat, we have been tainted with her original sin. Cast out of that paradise, never to return, its entrance guarded by angels with flaming swords, we females have suffered for her weakness. We bear pains in childbirth and are subservient to man’s will. It is right and it is just; it is our punishment for Eve’s sin.

“Yet we present here today, each and every pupil in this establishment, is doubly-tainted. You were sent here by your parents in concern for your spiritual well-being. You have all sinned, committed heinous sins of the flesh with the sons of Adam or even the daughters of Eve. Your transgressions are unforgivable, they deserve only the eternal flames and yet Christ, in His infinite wisdom, died on the Cross to give you all a second chance. You are not worthy even to eat the crumbs from under His table and yet He provides you with a veritable banquet that is His earthen kingdom. He has made the offering of the Seven Sacred Gifts of which you all proudly wear the first as a cure for your transgressions. And yet still you sin! Still you wallow in your depravity! Still you require guidance and deliverance!

“Today one of these two miserable sinners did commit the grievous transgression of physically attacking her sister and then compounded it with the still more grievous sin of lying. Thus it is, with a heavy heart, that I am required to summon the serpent, to submit these two miserable wretches to a trial of temptation in order to determine who is the filthy transgressor. Watch their trial, submerge yourselves into their ordeal in order to cleanse your own souls of the filth that permeates it. And whilst doing so, help save these beasts of sin from further depravity by chanting the lines of the prayer Our Lord Himself taught us: ‘Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil!’

The chanting began and my heart started beating so loudly that I was sure the whole room could hear it. I was confused, mystified, scared out of my wits. Then the headmistress brought out the serpent, holding it aloft like an African savage might hold up their idol or the sacrificial knife.

It was a snake, perhaps two feet in length, that twitched and spasmed. At first, I thought that it to be a real snake, but then I noticed that the twitching had a sort-of regularity about it that made me realise that it was perhaps automated, mechanical. This revelation was a lucky one, for what happened next, had it been a real, poisonous snake, would have probably caused me to have a mental collapse.

The snake was inserted into me.

Yes. Inserted into me there. In my most private place. It burrowed inside me, vibrating and twitching, arousing me as Stephen had once done with passion.

The other end was then inserted into Mary’s love cavern and, before I knew it, we were pushed together so that my breasts were squashed against hers and the warmth of her skin could be felt.

Belts were then brought forth and secured around us, melding the two bodies into one, the first above our chests and the second at our waists. We were more intimate that I had ever been with another human being besides Stephen. Even though we could not see one another due to our heavenward gaze, we could feel each other’s minutest breath and quickening heart rates. She squirmed against me and my arousal rose. The snake vibrated deep within us both and my desire levels escalated further.

And all around us the rest of the school chanted ‘Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil!’ like some heathen mantra.

Those words and the headmistress’s explanation made me realise the task before me: I had to resist temptation, to not succumb to the growing desire, the feelings of raw lust welling up inside me as the serpent did its heinous work and Mary’s breasts pushed against mine.

Our gags were removed and she started whispering in my ear. “Don’t tell me that you don’t love this, you wanton whore! You’ve wanted this since the first day we met; to be my bitch! Give in to it, let me take you to a place that no man can ever bring you to!”

And it was working! The twitching, seductive serpent was doing its evil work and I started panting, my breasts heaving against hers. I recalled what Catherine had said; that Mary had done this before, that she never lost. I could not let it happen! Succumb now and I would be her victim again and again, forever the slave to this manipulative whore. “Want you? I replied. “I want a real woman, not a flat-chested stick insect with the sex appeal of a termite. I want Catherine; I want Theresa, I want Sheila. But you? Don’t make me sick!”

“I’ve had them all and I’ll have you too! Listen to the serpent! Feel his skin caress you and awaken your wanton urges!”

“My urges! You are the one who is panting! You are the one who is struggling to resist! Say an ‘Ave’, you need it more than I!”

And she was panting, struggling to resist its furtive motions. Yet so was I! I was on the brink, struggling to contain and control myself. All around the crowd chanted, each eager to see who would climax first, each rapt with the show before them, each both pitying and jealous.

I couldn’t hold it in, I could not continue! She was on the brink too, but I was on the very edge, unable to resist those seductive motions in my nether canal. I tried to focus but my mind was a blur. Then I had an idea, a high-risk strategy but worth trying.

I ground my body against hers increasing the invader’s movements and then licked her face! She shuddered and uttered a long, loud cry of ecstasy.

I had done it! Unseen by the others who were focusing on Mary’s defeat, I shuddered to my own quiet, secret release, careful not to utter a word.

The serpent was removed and we sat there, body to body, panting. “Don’t fuck with me ever again!” I whispered in her ear.

She did not reply.

And Mary never did mess with me again. For the two weeks that followed her submission to the serpent, she was forced to wear a helmet of white leather which blinded her and blocked out her hearing. Alone in her own world for so long, when released back to reality, she was a different person. Broken and subdued, she displayed a submissiveness beyond that of any other girl I knew. I did not even bother acknowledging her after that.

And because of my victory over sin and the devil, I became a heroine. All the girls wanted to talk to me and no one dared challenge me. Life at St. Brigid’s became marginally more bearable, although regular eye infractions spotted by my maid meant that I, like all the girls, was subjected to paddling every Friday evening, one for each sin. Even this though, was bearable. I was cock of the walk and had won my first victory against this loathsome school and its system.

And so things continued until the end of the first term.

Part 3

Becoming Cupcake

I have posted this piece here after the Benfanstorybox Yahoo Group folded so that it is not lost.


This is a continuing story that takes place within Cherish Valley, fictional city I created.  Although all content and ideas within this story are my own, I invite anyone to write their own stories based within this world.  All I ask is that you email me first ( and ask my permission in doing so and then credit me so


These stories detail a futuristic “concept town” created in the deserts below “Silicone Valley.”  A town which mirrors, modernizes, and improves upon the setting of The Stepford Wives where women are involuntarily transformed into walking, talking sex bimbos for their horny, desperate husbands.


They represent an extreme experimentation into the boundaries I set within my sexual preferences and fetishes.  I hope to set off a trend of Cherish Valley tales, such as the Master PC series has and continue the themes and ideas expressed in them into other tales as well.  Hopefully, you’ll see that the possibilities here in Cherish are endless.





“Becoming Cupcake”


Chapter One – Stray Bimbos


Allison Anders was lost.  Allison Anders was tired and hungry.  Allison Anders was walking down the proverbial desert highway in search of an unclear future.


In short, Allison Anders was exactly where she wanted to be.


It had been close to seven months since she ran away from home in search of a music career.  Home was not where the heart was.  It was not in a house where a drunken man she cringed to even call “step-dad” used her ass as an ashtray coaster.


It had started just a couple months after her mother had taken ill with cancer.  The man she called stepdad had quit all his sexual innuendos and sly glances.  He had stopped pausing at her bedroom door to beat off as she pretended to sleep.  And he had stopped pretending that he loved her mother.  Rather, Allison’s mom getting sick was the best thing that could’ve happened to him.  She always figured that he hadn’t really loved her mother anyway.  She even imagined that it was her face that was really on his mind, every time he screwed her mom.



And who was to blame him?  While Allison’s mother was a looker back in her day… she had hit the wall.  Too many years of drunken mourning over her husband’s death had put her directly in the path of Lyle Corbett.  Less than a year later, Lyle was Allison’s new stepdad and the days of panty sniffing and late night ejaculations in their blue, carpeted hallway had begun.


Allison was her father’s child.  Yet she had her mother’s looks.  5.6 in height, 118 pounds, B cup, and blonde hair which she wore almost shaved to the scalp.  It was her look.  And she didn’t care what anyone felt about it.  Allison never took to the baby jane look that so many aunts and uncles loved about her as a little girl.  Rather, she rebelled against her looks.  Never having a solid school life, Allison didn’t fit in anyway.  She had no strong friends to speak of and no hobbies or guys to fuss about.


Allison wasn’t necessarily a tomboy.  She liked boys alright.  But she only respected musicians.  It was what she strived to become after all.  For her, getting wet over a guy meant listening to Billy Corgan’s fake harmonic at the climax of the guitar solo for “Soma.”  It meant listening to John Lennon’s voice crack.  It meant taking Led Zeppelin’s song “Going to California” literally.


And so hear she was, an acoustic guitar over her back that she was still learning to play… crumpled maps in her backpack along with a collection of lyrics, clothes and stolen 7-11 sandwich packs.  She had crossed the California border from the southern part of the state while hitching a ride with a bunch of frat guys who ignored her B breasts, thin lips and short, “boyish” haircut, yet continually studied her hippie jeans and red cowboy boots with frowning faces and jock-type chuckles.


To this, Allison’s reply would always be, “I’m a musician.  Aren’t I entitled to my own look?”  But the “look” was just a cover for the fact that Allison was beyond desperate.  Sure, she was finally in California.  It had taken months of sleeping in motels, sneaking around, stealing food, and hitching rides across half the country to get here.  But she was here.  Still, L.A. was a long ways off.  She had only ventured as far north as San Diego and still had a ways to go.  Yet her destination seemed hopeless since Allison had lost a majority of the confidence that got her this far.  Who was she fooling anyway?  She wrote great lyrics, but her playing was only sub-par.  She was no Jewel or Melissa Ethridge (two musicians that she despised) and her “look” was some sort of mesh of “country” meets “hippie”.


Where the hell was she going on this road anyway?




The town loomed up in the distance.  The road almost seemed to dead-end into it.  It’s front gate resembled something Disney World would use in Epcott Center for some new and futuristic culture.


The sun was high and Allison was starved and sweating beyond belief when she crossed through the gates of Cherish Valley.  “The only thing I’d ‘cherish’ right now is a cold Gatorade,” she thought.


Allison had entered some sort of circular town square, where multiple, paved roads went in three different directions.  The statue in the town resembled a man looking powerful and awe-inspiring.  In his right hand was a small globe and tucked under the nestle of his left was a wide-eyed woman, practically cowering in his protective embrace.


“A little sexist, eh?” thought Allison.  Nevertheless, she quickly crossed the sparkling clean street of the town center and found herself on a semi-crowded sidewalk littered with coffee shops, Tofu restaurants, yogurt catteries and… more coffee shops.  Bobbing in and out of the sidewalk patrons, Allison was greeted with cheerful smiles from women who looked like they had stepped out of a 1950’s Playboy centerfold.


Frowning, Allison tried to push on to the nearest deli or bodega… but the nagging feeling like she was being (studied) watched kept pulling at her.  Caught up in a rush of billowing skirts, floral patterned dresses, summer gloves, stockings, high heels, chokers, hair spray… Allison finally had to rest on the curb of the sidewalk.  Her hunger and thirst temporarily put on hold.  Something was wrong here.


Something was off about this town.


Suddenly a pink-gloved hand rested on Allison’s shoulder and the smiling, beautiful face of a young woman knelt beside her, being careful not to let her dress touch the pristine pavement.


“Are you lost, dear stray?” asked the woman.  “What did you call me?” asked Allison.  And that was when things got weirder.  For it seemed like every male eye was suddenly glued to her.  A business man across the street had decided to lean against a mailbox and light a cigarette.  The look on his face suggested that he was playfully waiting for something to happen.


An old store owner stepped out of his bakery to get some air.  Or so it seemed at first, because now, he too, was watching Allison closely, an eager expression on his face.


Now the business man was stopping another man, dressed likewise.  Pointing towards Allison, yet another set of eyes was now glued on her.


“I said, are you lost, dear tray?” asked the woman.  “I was heading to the grocery market to fetch Bill some baked beans.  He like, totally loves his baked beans.”


Allison could only stare at this beautiful woman who spoke like some ditzy housewife, wondering where the hell she could possibly be.  Everything seemed too perfect, yet off.  Why was everyone looking at her?  Sure, she didn’t seem to fit in with the Barbie Doll type woman around her, but this was America.  She wouldn’t fit into an Amish society either.  Yet she’d feel safer there than she felt right now.


And that was when it happened.  Two men in white medical uniforms suddenly appeared from a crowd on the sidewalk across the street.  Crossing the road, they seemed to mean business.  And they were bearing down on Allison quick.


Before Allison knew it, she was on her feet, backing away with a confused look on her face.  “We’ll take over from here, Mrs. Wolstone.”  said the taller man in the medical clothes.


“Ohh, goody,” said Mrs. Wolstone.  “After all, I like, can’t be late in getting back to my Bill.”  Clicking away in her 6-inch, pink high heels, Mrs. Wolstone waved a dainty, gloved hand at Allison.  “Ta ta.”


But Allison’s attention was drawn to the two men who were now standing right in front of her.  Backing away, she said, “Is there a problem?  I was just catching my breath.  I can leave if you want—“


A sharp prickly pierced her ass and that pristine concrete quickly swallowed Allison up.





Allison awoke in a most peculiar and uncomfortable position.  She was lying, strapped to a board with her arms fastened at her sides.  Some sort of choker around her neck stopped her from tilting her head too far forward.  Yet the gesture would prove fruitless as the board was in a vertical position.


Standing before her was a short, balding man with a name tag that said “Dr. Gruber” on it. Gruber was dressed in a white medical suit and held a clipboard out before him.  Beside him was an even shorter man who looked to be in his mid 60s.  Wrinkled more than he should be, the man hunched over and wore a sly, almost toothless grin behind his pasty, old lips.  His few remaining white hairs, sprouted out from his pockmarked head in several directions.  He was dressed as a golfer and held a cane.


“Ahh, she awakens.” said Dr. Gruber.


“Where the hell am I?” demanded Allison.


“Silence, slut.  You don’t get to ask any questions.  Just lie there and take in your surroundings.  We’ll do all the talking.”  said Gruber.


Allison began to grow very worried.  More worried than she was just five seconds ago.  Something in Gruber’s cold, calculated stare and the way he had addressed her as “slut” just now unsettled her.  He seemed way too professional and her suspicions that this was more than just an unorthodox kidnapping grew by the second.


“But I don’t—“


“Melvin, you were right.  I guess we should’ve gagged her after all.” said Gruber.  Gruber produced some sort of plug gag from his coat pocket.  It was pink at the head and had a white leather strap.  Handing the gag to Melvin, Gruber continued to study Allison’s body, taking notes as he did.


Melvin meanwhile seemed like a kid on Christmas morning.  “Thank you, Dr. Gruber.  This is getting better by the minute.”  Melvin hobbled over to Allison’s naked, strapped body and leaned his cane against her crotch.  Fiddling with the gag, Allison could only stare at it in shock as she realized that a rather long dildo was attached to its end.


Staring into Melvin’s watery eyes, Allison was about to plead when Melvin pinched her nose and stretched open her mouth.  Shoving the pink dildo deep into her mouth, he fastened the strap around the back of her head, pulling it super tight.  “Although I hate her hair, Doc… I must say that it’s easier buckling the gags.”


“You like having them gagged don’t you, Melvin?”


“Yep, but like you said before… the dental treatment is easier.  I like it when they get to eat cock all day.” Chuckled Melvin.


“So I take it we’ll be making a cast of your…” Gruber pointed a finger at Melvin’s crotch.


Melvin chuckled again, spraying spittle all over Allison’s gagged face.  Coming off tippy toes, Melvin tapped Allison on the nose and then regained his flat footing.  “No… I’m afraid you’ll have to make it a little bigger.”  Melvin looked sad.


“Ohh, come, Melvin.” said Gruber. “She’ll love it no matter how big it is.  After we extract all her teeth, she won’t care how small you are.  She’ll suck that cock of yours like there’s no tomorrow.  And when she’s not sucking, she’ll be wearing a mouthful of fused dentures that don’t open with an even bigger cock filling her mouth…. all day long.”


“But I want her to speak sometimes, Doc.  I like how stupid they sound when they try to make sense.  So put a check under “lispy voice” on that form of yours.”


Allison writhed into her gag.  Her fear replaced by anger as she twisted her face back and forth, screaming into the dildo that filled her mouth.


“Ooooh, she’s a wild one, Grube.” said Melvin.


“Most strays are.  They wander away from their homes thinking this world will open its kind arms to them.  And then they cross our front gates and we have one more wife, one more waitress, one more maid, one more slut to add to our population.  I’ve always adored the Cherish Stray Retain System.” said Gruber.


Melvin meanwhile, had found a new home for his cane.  Jiggling the steal head of it into Allison’s nether lips, Allison struggled the best she could.  And then Melvin cut with the teasing and rammed the cane as far into Allison’s cunt as he could.


“MPPPGHHHHHHHH!!!” was the only sound Allison could make as Melvin slowed down the pace, fucking the young runaway with the head of his cane. “Such a naughty girl, my Cupcake is.” said Melvin.


Dr. Gruber just shook his head back and forth, grinning as if he had seen this very same scene many times before.


“Okay, let’s go over this again.  I already know that Gina’s death had a small effect on you.  You complained numerous times that she was unfit for your extreme tastes.”


Pumping away at Allison still, Melvin said, from over his shoulder, “Yes, she was a good little bimbo for the first few years.  But I grew tired of her.  I don’t like em’ old.”


“Well, Gina was your wife.  And she was also one of our first cases.  So you have to understand our clause.  The Cherish amendments board states that you have to fulfill a pre-determined amount of time with your wife unless she was brought on by the town committee to serve as your—“


“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Melvin waved Gruber off.  “Let’s just get this one right.”  Melvin began stroking Allison’s tear-stained face, still fucking her with the cane with his other hand.


Gruber went back to Melvin’s form.  “Well, okay.  It says here you like her height, but you want her weight down to 108.  You have tits set at 34E.  Good choice.”


“Thank you,” grinned Melvin, poking a finger into the nipple of Allison’s B cups.  Spraying Allison with more spittle, Melvin leaned into her face again and whispered, “I like big boobies… and so will you, my little bimbo.”  Allison whipped her head away, wondering when the hell she would wake up from this insane nightmare.


Gruber continued, “Level 3 collagen lip enhancement.  Doll eyes, raised cheek bones, platinum hair graft, 18 inch waist…” Gruber looked up.  “You realize that if you want her by the end of the month, we’re going to have to take two ribs out to get that waist down?”


Allison’s eyes went wide as Melvin nodded impatiently.  “Of course I know that.  And make sure that you get her ass into a nice, heart-shaped bubble.”


“Come now, Melvin, you know that’s standard.”


Melvin made a sarcastic face, Ohh, yeah.  Of course.


“As for her intelligence… we scanned her at a 145 IQ.  Pretty impressive.  She was a drop-out, but most 140’s usually are.  Pity they never realize how smart they really are.”  Gruber chuckled.


“I don’t care if she could’ve earned a Pulitzer Prize.  I want this girl brainless.”


“Of course, Melvin, of course.” Gruber jotted down some quick stats as Allison watched on in horror.  He had mentioned IQs…. did that mean they were going to operate on her brain?  What about her music career?  Her writing?  Her life?


Almost as if he was reading her mind, Melvin leaned in one final time and sprayed a wet whisper in her face, “You gonna be my little airheaded Barbie Doll, aren’t you, Cupcake?”


And then Melvin licked the side of Allison’s face, leaving a long line of drool which collected at her chin and dripped on to her nipple.


Continued in Chapter 2, “Cupcake’s Homecoming”…


If you liked this first chapter of my story, let me know.  I have more planned for Allison where her transformation into Cupcake… Melvin’s new bimbo, will proceed.  But I’d like some feedback on what I’ve typed so far.  So email me at


Later – The Mayor

Chapter Two – Cupcake’s Homecoming


Allison awoke in a sea of pink.  The ruffled collar of a pink baby doll nighty greeted her chin while the laced ruffles of a pink comforter swallowed her into the confines of a pink, satin bed with matching pillows.  Staring up, a pink canopy, covered in more pink satin, smiled down upon her.


Where was she?  Why couldn’t she remember anything?  A smothered feeling of nightmares pushed back into her sub-conscious mind seemed to wink at her, more than leer.


Rising out of the sea of comforters, Allison stretched… and that’s when she noticed her hands: Two perfectly manicured hands with a “baby pink” polish ending in one inch square tips.  Allison studied them, shocked.  She tapped them against the night table: acrylic.  Maybe permanent.


And then her hair spilled down from her bonnet… a cascading flow of platinum blonde tresses, styled into French curls.  They landed on the twin mounds of her 34E breasts.


34E breasts…


Allison opened her mouth to scream, but not a sound escaped her collagen-enhanced lips.  Seizing her breasts out of pure shock, she squeezed them… not believing the sight of them until finally—


Allison squealed, a high-pitched little girl’s scream, as the heaviest, earth shattering sensation she had ever felt erupted in her pussy.


Pleasure that she had never felt… pleasure that scared (thrilled) her.


“What’s happened to me?!?”


Downstairs, Melvin stirred his early morning coffee, practically giggling to himself.  He had already taken Allison’s virginity while she lay unconscious.  Fuck Gruber and all his traditional “Wait till they’re awake before you break them in” mantras.  It had been close to a month since they had caught this slut wandering around town.  Dumb runaways.  Capturing and transforming “strays” was perhaps the best idea this town had come up with yet.


A month of waiting.  Surgery after surgery.  Statistic after statistic.  Gruber and his cronies loved keeping the men of Cherish Valley in suspense.  Sure, Melvin had been down this road before back when he and his wife first moved to Cherish.  But she was gone now.  And it was high time that he acquired a new toy.


Upstairs, Melvin’s new “toy” had just fallen out of bed.  “Ha,” thought Melvin, “Give the bimbo a few more minutes to explore her new changes.”  Then he’d come up and explain everything.  Or at least, what he felt like explaining.


Upstairs, Melvin’s toy… Allison Anders… was laying on the pink carpet.  Tears of shock streaming down her face.


What – the – fuck – had – happened?


And less importantly, where the hell she was?  The last thing she could recall was…. Well, Allison really couldn’t recall much of anything.  Her mind was a complete blank.  When she thought of family, the face of some old man appeared.  When she thought of home… some house in a utopian fantasy appeared.  And when she thought of her life… only feelings of servitude, pleasure and submissiveness surfaced.


Allison grabbed the sides of her curly head and squeezed at her temples.  Somehow, she regained her footing.  It was the 7 inch heels on her stocking-clad feet that had made her lose her balance when she stepped from the bed.  Who the hell wore shoes to bed anyway?


People like you, Cupcake.


There it was again!  That voice in her head.  Her aching head.


Walking from the Victorian style bed, Allison found that the high heels were actually not a bother at all.  In fact, they fit perfect and even soothed her high arches.


Taking the room in, Allison noticed how dominant the color pink was.  Pink, the color bimbos wore.  Cheerleaders.  Girly girls.  The exact opposite of everything Allison had always strived to be.  But even these thoughts seemed fuzzy.  Thinking in general seemed fuzzy.


Allison turned from the pink wallpaper with the ribbon designs to find herself staring into a wall-length mirror.


That was when she fainted.




“Come now, dear.  It’s not that bad.  Daddy is here.”


Allison awoke, crunched up like a little girl in the lap of some old man.


“Wha— what?” asked Allison, brushing her long, blonde hair from her face.


“C’mon, up!  Get up.  Time you saw what Daddy Melvin has done to you.”


Lifting her up, Melvin brought Allison back over to the mirror.  And then she remembered why she had fainted.


Allison Anders was no longer a woman.  Allison Anders had become a cartoon.  A Little Annie Fanny.  A surgically-enhanced wonder slut.


Her hair resembled that of a dolls.  Long, platinum blonde tresses done into a severe French curl that began at the top of her head (where a pretty pink bow rested) and trailed down to the small of her back.


Her face was angelic beauty.  Porcelain skin with rosy, high cheek bones; two, round eyes of an almost opaque, blue nature.  When she blinked, her long eye lashes fluttered like… a dolls.  Pencil thin eyebrows rose high when she took in her cute, perky, button nose, resting above a set of unbelievably fat, collagen enhanced lips, shaped into a cupid’s bow.  Made into a perfect, bee-sting pout, Allison’s new lips were so puffy that she couldn’t even close them.  They seemed to always be open in a perpetual “o” and were swathed in a coat of thick, pink lip gloss.


Melvin noticed the girl fingering her new lips.  Raising a wrinkled appendage, he inserted his crusty finger deep into Allison’s mouth.  Instinctively, Allison’s fat lips closed around his finger, inviting and welcoming it like a tight vagina.


“Ahh, Gruber’s done his work.”


Allison wanted to yank Melvin’s hand from her mouth, but she found all she could do was stare down, cross-eyed at Melvin’s hand like a frozen idiot. And then Melvin’s finger popped out of Allison’s mouth with a wet slurp… a set of dentures attached.  Allison immediately raised her pink fingers and began searching for her teeth.


Why were there no teeth in her mouth???


Her teeth were in Melvin’s hand and all that Allison was greeted with was a set of shiny, wet gums where her teeth once were.


“Ma eef!” pleaded Allison.


“What, dear.  I believe you’re enquiring about your teeth?”


Allison shook her head up and down, frantically, her hand still covering her new mouth.


“Why, what good would teeth do a set of lips like that?” With that, Melvin pinched Allison’s lower lip.  “You’ll wear your dentures when we have to make appearances.  And even then, they’ll be fused together with a cast of my dildo behind them.  Can’t have you forgetting that my cock is your new lollipop.  Little girls like lollipops, don’t they?” Melvin chuckled, as he fidgeted with some sort of dildo at the back of the wet dentures in his hand  “Ohh, you’ll find opening your mouth when they’re in quite a treat… since I can sometimes make it impossible.  These ones here are able to open, but don’t get used to that.  Most of the others will be fused together.”


“Wha hafff u uun?”


“I removed your teeth, silly girl.  What good would they do a cock sucker like you anyway?  Don’t you see, I don’t care what comes out of your mouth, only what goes into it.  And in this case, my cock is what goes into it.  You’re mouth is my new cum deposit.  And when you get too chatty, I’ll just insert your “special dentures” in.”  Melvin gestured to the dildo, which he attached and then removed from the back of the dentures.  “All you’ll be able to do is smile and look pretty, with a cast of my penis, filling your mouth.”


Allison shook her head back and forth in shock… but it was quickly forgotten as she took in the rest of her new body: The pink, feminine nighty did little too hide her new, 34E breasts.  Nipples the size of a finger tip pointed out from the thin fabric… almost groping for the air before them.  Losing the urge not to touch them, Allison lifted her breasts as high as she could and was amazed to feel how firm they were, and how they sagged very little when she released them.  Rather, they seemed to bounce even higher up then they previously sat.


Next, she took in her waist.  Melvin had a thing for 18 inch waists.  And so two of Allison’s ribs had been removed.  It was her first surgery, since it took the longest to heal.


Allison’s hips flared out around a 34 inch bubble butt shaped into a heart.  When she sat, it felt like a pillow under her ass.  Only the pillow was her ass.  Since the pink nighty ended at her belly button, and Allison wore no panties, exploring her now hairless vagina was easy…


Two, thick lips, dripping and hungry surrounded a clitoris the size of a quarter, it seemed.  The nether lips of Allison’s cunt resembled a flower, ready to bloom and swallow any fly that landed in its trap.


Continuing down, Allison took in her new, stocking-clad legs… hairless underneath like the rest of her body, they seemed to go on forever, ending at the soles of her 7-inch mules.


“Ahh, and let’s not forget the kicker.” said Melvin.  Reaching up to the collar of Allison’s baby doll nighty, Melvin pulled the ruffled lace down just far enough so that she could make out a steel collar painted white and layered in pink lace.  The words “Cupcake – Property of Melvin Cobbler.  Please Return if Found!”


Allison was numbed by this new discovery.  But a new shock overtook her a second later… Allison couldn’t read any of the words on the collar.




“An airhead, you see?” said Melvin.


Cupcake stared into the man’s watery eyes.  Watery from age, while Cupcake’s were watery from the dawning realization that her life would never be the same.  For the past hour, Melvin had been explaining to her all that had transpired the past month in the labs and rooms of Cherish Med.  And he had just gotten to the part she had feared most: Allison’s new IQ was less than half her old one.


Why was he telling Cupcake?  Why should she know?


The answer was simple: this was Melvin’s little game.  Standard procedure in Cherish Valley was what they called a “clean sweep.”  Once that was achieved, the female subject was then brainwashed and mentally geared through hypnosis and repeated zoning to be “prepared” and readied for her new life.  Like a new puppy, trained and eager to please, the wives of Cherish left the medical center with a renewed vigor and urge to please their men.  They knew all that was expected of them and all the men had to do was sit back and enjoy the show… as their wives became housemaids, mothers, and sluts all in one.


It was Cherish Valley’s secrecy, excellent economy, and remote location that kept it alive for so many decades.  They had only had one occasion of a “leakage” when a family had escaped a few years back.  But the wife had returned, and the husband and two kids had been “done away with.”


Hell, Cherish had their own political board.  Their own police force.  They even had their own cable broadcasting (specifically tailored for subliminal hypnosis, of course).  It was a town of upstanding morals and righteous ideals and beliefs.  A throwback to the innocent days of the 1950s when America was young and hungry.  Kids were raised right in Cherish.  A girl’s Sweet Sixteen became the threshold to a new life of servitude and pleasure.  Those born in Cherish knew this.  They aspired to it.


Conformity was their release.


Individuality was to be feared… and repressed at all costs.  The town came first, the men came second.  The women never came.  They just served.


But Melvin knew all of this was bullshit.  Well, maybe all of it accept that last part.  People like Gruber knew too.  It was the elders.  The men on the town board.  The Association and all their preaching and “good moral fiber” that made things so archaic around town.  The women had no say in it, since, in a way, they epitomized it.


You see, the women of Cherish weren’t trashy sluts.  No way.  It would not be allowed.


Rather, the fashion of the town would best be described as June Cleaver meets Pamela Anderson.  Bright, pastel colors greeted kid gloves and satin clad dresses which ended just below the pussy lips.  The style of Cherish was a contradiction in terms.  The colors and fabrics suggested virginity… yet the heart-shaped holes cut into the asses of a more popular, designer skirt immediately reminded you that you were in some sort of perverted, male utopia.


And even better, the skirts came that way from the store.


Melvin didn’t want a trashy slut.  He could travel up to Los Angeles and get that in a strip club.  He wanted the contradiction.  He lived for it.  Cupcake was to become his new wife.  His new daughter.  His new bimbo… all in one.  And he liked her pink, brainless, and pretty.  His very own Barbie Doll to play with, dress up and fuck silly.


The idea of the strong, feminine women was a joke to him.  In Cherish, the term “Career Girl” meant waitress.  The word “bimbo” meant “female.”  And Melvin had no problem with that ideal at all.


But was he to strive to become like those men on the town board?  The ones who led their new trophy wives to restaurants on an invisible leash?




But his toy wouldn’t be fitting the mold of the common Cherish female.  Sure, custom jobs were becoming very popular these days.  It had become common to see a man leading a wife out of the town mall with a perfectly, normal “Cherish frame.”  Only her lips would resemble a donut.  A line of drool collecting on a bib she wore around her neck.  She’d have to spend the rest of her life eating and drinking through a straw.


And to her, it would seem as if this was how she was meant to be.


Well, Melvin didn’t want a wife with a donut for a mouth.  No, his custom job was something different all together.  And he had to pay Gruber a hefty amount more than the agreed fee to oblige.


His wish was that Cupcake wouldn’t be a clean slate like the others.  Rather, she would hate Melvin.  She would know something was wrong.  That her body was not meant to be like this.  That she was not meant to be here, in Cherish.


Yet she would be powerless to stop it.  A simple, “No” would have her sitting submissively, a smile on her pretty face and an agonizing scream of “Why???” echoing through her empty little head.


Since her “teeth” had been inserted back into her mouth.  Allison found she could talk again.  She had said little since first waking up, and it was still very difficult to get used to the new way she spoke.


“But, like– why, have you like– ummm… done this to Cupcake?”


“No reason.  It was my time.  Do you know how long I was on the “Stray Waiting List?  Two years.  Two years I prepared this house.  Prepared your wardrobe.  I didn’t care who they picked up.  I just knew that after all the surgery, she would be mine.  My little Cupcake to have and fuck.  It was just good timing when you came along.  Most Strays don’t end up as wives.  They get implanted and enhanced and then sent off to work as maids, waitresses and secretaries.  But Gina, my wife, was one of the first women to die of natural causes in Cherish.  She took sick many years ago, and her condition only got worse.  So my only option was to put my name down on the waiting list.  And here you are.”


“But like– why did you, like– make Cupcake ummm… stupid?” asked Allison in a lispy, high-pitched, little girl voice.


“Because most women are stupid already, silly girl.”  Tapping Cupcake’s button nose, Melvin said, “But I like them really stupid.  Which is why you’re going to recover from all of this “trauma” very quickly.  Not because you’re a strong, resilient young woman.  Rather, because you’ll be too dumb to remember everything we just talked about.”


Folding her arms like a little girl who hasn’t gotten the doll she wanted on Christmas morning, Allison shook her head No. And then she said, “Cupcake like– won’t forget.  She won’t.”  Pouting and clenching her eyes shut, Melvin observed the face of the stubborn slut before him.


“Ahh, but you’re doing exactly what they programmed you to do.  I wanted you this way…. fighting me every inch of the way.  Sure, they’ll be days where you’ll find yourself giggling like a horny cheerleader in heat at the site of a balloon rising into the air… and I’ll let you have those days.  It’ll be a false happiness.  The happiness of an airhead.  Which is just what you are.  But most of your days will be spent begging me not to fuck your ass again and then cum in your mouth.  Most of your mornings will be spent awakening next to my bed with a dog leash attached to your collar.  Dried tears on your cheeks.  They’ll be times where you spend the whole day cleaning the house with all of your orifices filled.  They’ll be nights where you go to sleep with my cock in your mouth and wake up with a mouth full of sticky, hot cum.”


With a mounting horror, Allison took in all that Melvin said.  She made a promise to herself in that very second that she would indeed, fight him every step of the way.  That she would escape from this accursed town and regain her dreams.  That she would live a normal life and grasp and hold on to her dwindling intelligence.


And then Melvin lifted the girl from his lap and set her down on her knees.  The ruffled hem line of the pink baby doll nighty collected over the wet, fat lips of Allison’s new cunt.


“Stay!” commanded Melvin.


And like a good little girl, Cupcake could only stare, her pink mouth permanently open in a little “o” as Melvin undid his fly and pulled down his old man’s pants to reveal a sweaty, flaccid cock, hanging limply in-between his hairy crotch.


Licking his lips anxiously, Melvin said, “Now be Daddy’s little girl and suck me dry, Cupcake.”


And like the good little bimbo she was, Cupcake Coddler smiled, pointed at Melvin’s cock and said, “Pretty!!!”  Breaking down into a giggling fit, she placed her manicured fingers on Melvin’s unit and licked the wet tip of his cock until he grew hard in her face.  Then her fat, pink, collagen lips opened into a bigger “o” and she removed her “teeth” from her mouth and replaced them with the length of Melvin’s stubby penis.  In, in, further in, it touched the back of her throat and she began to chortle on its girth, a line of drool dripping from her pink lips.


Not being able to take it anymore, Melvin seized the sides of the curly-haired Barbie Doll before him and RAMMED his cock down Cupcake’s throat.  Cupcake could only hold on to Melvin’s thighs as he fucked her face, back and forth, up and down, side to side until finally exploding with a sea of hot, sticky cum, which layered the length of her throat.


Panting for breath, Melvin reached down and petted the head of his new bimbo, asking, “Now, what does Cupcake say?”


Swallowing it all, Cupcake said, “Thank you, Daddy.”


Continued in Chapter 3, “In The Pink”…


If you liked this second chapter of my story, “Becoming Cupcake,” let me know.  I have more planned for Allison where her transformation into Cupcake will continue and grow worse for her.  But I’d like some feedback on what I’ve typed so far. So email me at  I listened to all the nice emails that were sent to me and purposely made this second chapter a lot more hardcore.  Trust me, it will get worse for Cupcake before it gets better.  Who am I kidding, it will never get better.  She’s in Cherish Valley.


Later – The Mayor

Chapter Three – In The Pink


Monday morning, two days after her “awakening” in Cherish Valley, Cupcake stood in Melvin’s kitchen, ready for her first real day as the new Mrs. Coddler.  She stood, a vision a pink… a sexual contradiction by display.


A pink, mini Alice in Wonderland dress adorned her new frame.  Modified for an adult (or a teen), the dress was a pink satin frock, with white lace trim.  It began at her neck, just below her steel collar and stretched tight down her shoulders towards puffy, lacey sleeves ending just above her elbow.


Over her 34E breast-line, a heart-shaped opening with white lace trim was cut out of the fabric of the dress.  Done very professionally and with an eye for tease, the heart-shaped hole opened up only enough to reveal the tight crevice of Cupcake’s massive new tits.  Two cream colored breasts that strained against the satin surface, but were not allowed to squeeze through the window of the dress… only peak and wink at the observer… with nipples the size of a fingertip.


Underneath the dress, the breasts were needlessly lifted and held up at the crown of a Victorian style corset which ran all the way down to the beginning mound of Cupcake’s new ass.  Laced with whale bone, the corset further ground Cupcake’s 18 inch waist into a 16 inch hourglass and emphasized her hips even further… giving her ass the look as if it existed in its own zip code.  Melvin had taken great pleasure in setting his alarm an hour earlier that day, just so he could take his time lacing the slut into the prison of the corset… making sure to keep it in place with a tiny padlock which vanished under the satin at the base of the corset.


On the outside, a dainty, white, lacey apron was tied around her microscopic waist, disappearing at the back of the dress under a huge, stiff, pink bow that rested above Cupcake’s bubble but.


Underneath the stiff petticoats that rose the tiny hem of her dress almost horizontally at her sides, Cupcake wore a special thong which housed two battery operated dildos.  Dildos which rested safe and snug… one deep in her ass… the other, deep in her cunt.  Walking around with these busy vibrators engorged in both her ends felt like riding a horse that was constantly hurdling fences.


On her waist, above the pretty little thong, a garter belt suspended the tops of two white stockings which encased Cupcake’s legs… making them seem almost doll like in their creamy whiteness.  Furthermore, the fasteners of the garters were clearly visible under the puffy hemline which ended an inch above the base of her pussy lips.  And at each buckle, which held the stockings, a pink satin bow was adorned.


Staring down at her dress, Cupcake felt like a Christmas present for some little girl.  A life-sized Barbie Doll…. pink, lace ribbons and all.


Pink, patent leather ballet heels assured that Cupcake would be walking on tippy toes all day long like a pretty ballerina.  Even if her mind would allow her, Cupcake could not remove the sky-high heels, for they were padlocked on as well under the satin ribbons of the spaghetti straps which laced around her ankles.


White gloves, made of an expensive kid, were fastened over the palms of her hands by a tiny, heart-shaped button on the cuff.  The gloves were so tight, that Cupcake’s exposed fingers felt as if they were cut off from the rest of her hand.


Her make-up was impeccable.  Staring at herself in the mirror, Cupcake was amazed that she had known exactly what to do with all the different foundations, enhancers and glosses.  While her dwindling intelligence no longer allowed her the skills to figure out how to read a hand-clock, in little under thirty minutes, Cupcake had perfectly sculpted her face to that of a porcelain doll’s.


Starting with a white, creamy foundation, Cupcake had layered her face and neck.  Next, pink rouge dusted her cheekbones, making them appear even higher than they had already been lifted.  Her thin, arching lashes rose above two round, blue eyes, bathed in pink and black liner and surrounded up and down by long, batting lashes swathed in mascara.  A thick, pink, glossy coating was applied to her puffy, new lips.  And then two more coats were added on for longer lasting and a more “wet and hungry” look.  Either way, the strict rule of thumb, which all Cherish women had programmed into them, was that make-up was to be checked and re-applied at the head of every hour.


When completed, Cupcake’s new lips resembled a hungry, wet vagina on her face with a color that could practically glow pink in the dark.  The severity of the collagen had fattened her lips into a permanent “o” so that they were unable to close completely.  This gave her the look of silly school girl… lost and confused by all the complicating things around her.  And the fact that her eyes were as big and as round as a doll’s now, didn’t exactly help either. Try as she might, Cupcake saw a stupid, cutesy, airheaded girl staring back at her whenever she looked in the mirror.


Her platinum blonde hair, corkscrewed into French curls, cascaded down around her shoulders, resting on the twin mounds of her 34E tits.  The final pink bow rested high on top of her curly head… the words “Bimbo Slut” embroided on its fabric.


Bowing her head in shame and sorrow, Cupcake instinctively began sucking on the rubber dildo in her mouth… locked safely in place behind the guise of her dentured teeth, and began to remember… with her foggy new mind, the horrors of her first weekend with Melvin.




It began with a new wardrobe. It was on that Saturday morning that Cupcake was led from the shower, where she was scolded for attempting to use mouth wash to remove the taste of Melvin’s seed from her mouth.  After watching her skillfully apply her face, Melvin led Cupcake into her new walk-in closet.


While Melvin was no fashion designer… he did have a great imagination.  And in a town like Cherish Valley… where women are mere Barbie Dolls and eye candy for the men, all you have to do is follow your fetish, and you’re sure to find the outfit that matches it.


Therefore, Cupcake’s new wardrobe was broken up into many categories.  Starting with a selection of clothes that seemed tailored for a four year old girl living in Victorian England, Cupcake beheld an entire collection of little girl Alice in Wonderland dresses.  Microscopic waistlines; puffy, billowing petticoats that lifted the hemlines of skirts that wouldn’t even reach the middle of her thighs; lacey, satin frocks; small, cute aprons; large, stiff bows; soft, gentle ribbons… The collection resembled a pedophile’s wet dream.   Any grown woman forced to put on such dresses was soon reduced to a cutesy, little baby doll of a girl.   And to match the assortment of bright dresses, Melvin opened two draws below the hanging clothes that were filled with creamy, white stockings, garter belts, chokers, frilly ribbons and bows, dainty gloves, and a collection of Mary Jane shoes… each with a ballet-sized heel… each made in a bright, patent leather.


Moving on, Cupcake was led, to an assortment of rubber clothing.  Latex, PVC and straight rubber outfits littered the corner of the closet.  With a mounting dumbness to her expression, Cupcake stared on as Melvin produced cat suits, micro-minis, full-body suits, halter tops, and the occasional pair of pants, hobble skirts, and cut-out tops.  The outfits were accompanied by a different type of heel: open-toed platform mules with 6 inch heels were lined up under the rubber outfits.  Although this assortment of clothing came in pastel colors just as bright as the first… the heels were a little more racy.  Darker shades of pink, lavender, blue, yellow, orange and white were the colors here.  And a few pairs seemed to have no color at all, and were clear.


Cupcake was next hauled to a collection of uniforms.  While the majority of the uniforms seemed to be French Maid outfits… these were not your ordinary maid’s outfits that you’d find in a Halloween store.  Rather, each outfit had a severe, hourglass waist and the proper cut-outs in the ass and breast-line area.  The fabrics of the maid’s outfits ranged from latex, to rubber, to vinyl, to satin, to cotton…


As the hour pushed on, Cupcake was introduced to all sorts of different outfits.  Tops that had names stenciled in them.  And since Cupcake could no longer read, she found herself listening, with a mounting horror, as Melvin read the names of some of the shirts, “Barbie Girl;  Barbie Slut; Fuck Doll; Airhead; Bimbo; Bimbo Slut; Tits; Property of Melvin; Cum Deposit; Cunt etc.”


Cupcake was also introduced to a variety of toys and bondage gear.  From a huge assortment of plug gags which included binky gags, ball gags, dildo gags, ring gags to an assortment of dildos ranging from anal plugs to a 12 inch black dildo which Melvin teased Cupcake with by forcing her to lick it like a lollipop for the rest of the tour.


Speaking of lollipops… Melvin supplied Cupcake with an assortment of candy that she was expected to enjoy.  Starting with cum-flavored lollipops shaped as long, fat cocks (which could be purchased at any candy store in the front rack) Cupcake was also expected to chew gum all the time.  She was also encouraged to blow big bubbles and pop them all over her mouth.  While Melvin didn’t have to urge these ideas… he liked to remind Cupcake of what she had become.




Click, click, click…


Cupcake moved across the kitchen floor, mopping up Melvin’s piss puddle.  The old man leaned in the threshold of the kitchen door, admiring the dumb blonde as she eagerly mopped up his urine.


Now for another test.


”Stop.”  said Melvin.


Cupcake stood at attention, legs together at the knees, gloved hands tightly fixed around the pole of the mop, head bowed in submission.


“Lick the rest up with your tongue.” said Melvin.


A faint glimmer of hope… hope that he couldn’t possibly be serious… passed through Cupcake’s blue eyes.  “Yes, Daddy,” and then she nodded and gently leaned the mop against the counter, got down on two stockinged knees, and placed her palms on the tiled floor.


Crawling like a puppy over to the puddle of yellow piss, Cupcake lapped it up and drank it down.  Stopping at the halfway point, the young slut pulled some defense from her gut and glanced up at Melvin… piss dripping from her lips… hoping that it was enough.


”All of it, fuckdoll.”


Cupcake got back to licking up the piss like a good little girl.  Melvin watched her heart-shaped ass, perked up into the sky like a cushioned seat, as she moved around the floor to finish the task appointed her.


This was still Saturday morning, following the wardrobe tour… only hours from that dreadful moment that she had drank a very different liquid from this old man’s cock.  That moment afterwards where she had uttered that dreadful statement of submission and defeat…


Thank you, Daddy.


From that moment on… to this moment now… from every moment for the rest of that fateful weekend… Cupcake learned, in fast and harsh order, what her new place in life was to be.


The tour of the house had ended here… in the kitchen, where Melvin had revealed Cupcake’s new “diet” to her.  Opening the fridge, the young teen was greeted by glass bottles of milk, frothing at the surface like a “Fribble” from Friendlys.


It took one sample of the drink to realize that it was not a milk shake at all… but cum.  Melvin’s cum.  Over two year’s supply, saved and stored safely in the kitchen freezer.  If Cupcake was still smart, she would’ve expected something like this… having been told earlier by the old man that his former job, before spending his retirement on the golf course, was working as a doctor at sperm bank.  So who knows what other men’s seeds were among Melvin’s collection in the basement freezer.


Either way, it was in that moment that Cupcake learned that piss and cum were going to be the only drinks she was ever allowed to imbibe for the rest of her life.  Melvin chided the dim-witted girl that she’d be tasting a large assortment of the men in Cherish… without ever having to meet them.


But the new diet didn’t end there.  Melvin’s cum would find a way into all her meals as well.  From “cum stew” to “cum condiments” to “cum oatmeal.”  Even the new cuisine of Gerber baby food that would be enforced on her toothless, modified mouth included a healthy dosage of Melvin’s spunk.


Melvin had no problem admitting that the idea of Cupcake, forever swallowing his seed on a daily basis, turned him on to no end.  He even took the liberty of pumping his cum into all her face creams.  Even Cupcake’s shampoo, her Lubriderm skin conditioning, her toothpaste! received a healthy dose of the creamy white seed.


But Melvin always needed to take things one step further.  Which is why piss and shit would be included as Cupcake’s new “deserts.”  Starting with that Saturday morning sipping… Cupcake would forever be subjected to plates of Melvin’s feces and glasses of his urine.


Sure, he would switch it up every now and then.  I mean, what man would want to constantly live in fear that the mouth he kissed everyday tasted like piss and shit?  And so Melvin planned on timing these ordeals.  While Cupcake would be expected to taste cum all day long, Melvin made it firm that shit and piss were to be mouth-washed away before placing her pink lips to her Master’s.


Ohhh, but having a human piss deposit had so many benefits.  What man would get out of bed in the middle of the night to piss when the hungry, pink, female mouth at the tip of his cock served as a perfect substitute.  And so it was, that as Cupcake lay under the covers that first Saturday night, her head strapped tightly to Melvin’s crotch, with the length of his sweaty cock resting deep in her mouth… that she suddenly awoke (as if finding any sleep in this position was at all possible) to a steady torrent of piss flowing down her mouth.  Her natural reaction was to retch and gag… even with her arms fastened behind her back in a severe one-armed-glove.


But Melvin, peeking down at the bobbing head under his covers, just firmly planted his wrinkled palm at the top of the curly-haired bimbo and forced her still.  As Melvin pictured what little thought, yet large repulsion, must be going on in his new wife’s brain, his cock grew stiff in her mouth, making the piss come out slower… dragging the ordeal out longer.


Under the covers, Cupcake lay in tearful shock as Melvin continued to drain his bladder into her unwilling stomach.




But it didn’t end there… ohh, no… not by a long shot.


The tour of Melvin’s house had revealed a plethora of new discoveries that would serve as the basis and backbone of Cupcake’s new role in life.  Since Cupcake had not yet seen the outside of Melvin’s house, she had no idea how big it was.


Not until Melvin led her by dog leash through every room.  And Melvin had rooms for every fetish engrained in him… or every fetish he was still willing to try.


From the rubber baby wonderland… where Cupcake would be expected to sleep in a pink, steel crib, locked on top… to the diaper changing table… to the closet of baby doll dresses…


From the pink, wall-papered playroom adorned with a “spanking horse;” dildo-prodded display pole; dental chair; torture rack; and human cage…


From the Victorian style dining room; with a proper hole cut into the center of the table, which Melvin informed her, would be where her head would stick out on the nights Melvin decided to have guests; with the high, padded, baby high-chair that stood at the end of the table.


While Cupcake had spent Saturday night dinner slurping orange, mashed baby food from a dog dish on the floor at Melvin’s feet… Sunday night had been a horror show on its own.


Supper began with Melvin eating a wonderful French casserole that Cupcake had spent hours cooking.  At his crotch, Cupcake knelt under the table, eagerly slurping his purple-headed cock.  Melvin had given strict instructions that she was not allowed to let him cum until he said so.  And furthermore… that she was to keep the cum in her mouth afterwards.


And so, when Cupcake heard the words, “Now, Cupcake” she gave it her finale… and was greeted by a load of thick, sticky cum.  Pulling her glossy lips from Melvin’s cock with a wet “Slyuuuuush” sound… Cupcake rested on her haunches as Melvin backed the mahogany chair away from the table.


Seizing her leash, Melvin led Cupcake across the room on hands and knees.  Lifting her like the silly little girl she had become, the old man rested the teenager into the confines of a pink padded, metal high chair and removed her dog leash.  Before Cupcake knew what was going on, Melvin slammed the tray before her into her chest, cramming her tits into pancakes and locking her elbows at her sides.


With a “click” the tray locked into place, and Cupcake could only wiggle her dainty hands, which now rested over her thighs… useless.  Melvin then strapped her ankles into the legs of the chair.  Turning a crank at the chair’s side… Cupcake felt two dildos rise from the seat of the cushion below her ass… slowly, they penetrated her ass and cunt with each crank of the dial, until eight inches packed her pussy and six fed her ass.


Staring at Melvin with scared, confused eyes, Melvin smirked at the stupid look on the teen’s face.  Still keeping his spunk in her mouth, Cupcake’s lips puckered out into a pretty pink flower… as if she was a fish trying to kiss the glass of its bowl.


Already a bead of cum was beginning to appear at the center of those fat, collagen-enhanced lips as Cupcake began to panic… fearing she might swallow the load if—


And then Melvin placed a bowl of yellow mush on the tray before her.  Some sort of baby food purified and mixed with God’s knows what.


“Release the cum into the bowl, Cupcake.”


Cupcake, unable to lean forward due to the upright position that the tray locked her in, could only cock her chin down and squirt the load of cum, like a fountain, into the yellow substance of the food.  Melvin took a napkin and tapped it at the corners of the girl’s lips, as Cupcake licked the inside of her toothless mouth.


Melvin then tied a bib around Cupcake’s neck and produced a large, wooden spoon, which he used to stir the cum into the yellow baby mush before her.  Like a white swirl, the cum soon vanished into the thick, smelly meal… and Cupcake was ready for her supper.


With a dawning realizing of horror, Cupcake met Melvin’s eyes, mouth opening to plea… but he just used the opportunity to ram a spoonful of the yellow mush into her reluctant mouth.


Immediate tears rushed down Cupcake’s face as she wretched and gagged on the horrible tasting mush… chortling as if she might vomit.


“There, there.  Baby must swallow it all down” Cooed Melvin.


And with a pinch to her button nose and a tilt to her empty head, Cupcake did.  Spoonful after spoonful went down her throat… until the bowl was empty and her bib was coated in the yellow mush.. which dried into a smelly, thick crust.


The meal lay in Cupcake’s stomach for a mere 5 minutes before the young girl threw it all back up.  Luckily, Melvin anticipated this and so it was that the old man had a bowl ready on the high-chair’s tray to collect every last drop of the vomit.


It took three more vomits of the same bile before Cupcake fainted… with a full load of regurgitated baby food in her tummy.




That Sunday night brought an end to Cupcake’s orientation.  And so it was, that at 10pm Cupcake sat on Melvin’s lap, dressed in a pink, baby doll nighty… a diaper strapped around her waist; pink booties and matching mittens on her hands and feet; rubber panties around her diaper and petticoats; and her hair done up in ribbons and curls.


Under the flouncing nighty, Cupcake wore the rigid, 16-inch corset, so that her 34E breasts were lifted upright, giving the vision of this darling baby girl, a sluttish twist.  Her pussy was packed snugly with a long, ribbed vibrator, ready to buzz all night long… making slumber close to impossible.


Melvin was dressed in his old man pajamas, and had his reading glasses on.  Before him, the entire dossier of Cupcake’s old life resting in his hand.


“Allison Anders was an 18 year girl with a high I.Q. and a creative, passionate mind that would drive her to seek avenues of her life that would lead to infinite happiness.”


Melvin read the dossier like her was reading a bed time story.


Cupcake listened on, a glimmer of foggy remembrance showed in her doll-like eyes at hearing the record of her past life.


“Allison was an independent woman.  A feminist.  An idealist.  She had dreams, hopes, goals… a future.” And with that last bit, Melvin closed the dossier, huffing to himself and then slowly smirking as he realized that Cupcake was staring at him… with begging eyes that could only mean she wanted to talk.


“Very well,” said Melvin.  “Open up, Cupcake.”


The blonde girl on the old man’s lap opened her pink lips and Melvin reached into her mouth, grabbing hold of the fused together set of teeth.  With a slight pull, they released from her mouth with a long “slurp” and a line of drool, which had collected on the length of the dildo.  Melvin used his sleeve to dry the dumb girl’s chin, where most of the saliva had ended up.


“Well, what do you have to say, Cupcake?”


Cupcake’s lips quivered… her eyes watered… and one single word came out.




Melvin seemed bored by the question.  “Is that why you made me remove your teeth?  To ask me why?”


Seeing that Melvin was ready to silence her again with the horrible dentures, Cupcake rushed a response, “Like, why did you like, ummm… do this… stuff to Cupcake?  Like… ummm, Cupcake was like, a—Cupcake was a good girl… umm… like, and she totally like, ummm—“


Melvin sighed.  “Get on with it.  I haven’t got all night to sit here and listen to you try and make sense.


Cupcake was really crying now… the words were so close… all that she wanted to say and express to this horrible old man who had robbed her of her independence… of her dreams… OF HER LIFE!!!


“Cupcake like… like, wanted to be like… ummm, like a singer girl… Cupcake had… she like, had these dream thingys… and she like, thinks—“


Melvin finally had to step in.  “Cupcake, do yourself a favor and don’t think so much.  It’s not good for a silly girl like you.  You, my dear Barbie Doll, are an airheaded bimbo.  So the only thing I want you thinking about is how you’re going to please Daddy Melvin.”  With that, Melvin tapped his finger, mockingly, against the side of Cupcake’s curly head.


Cupcake’s fat lips frowned into a pout.  Her face was now lined with tears and her cheeks had flared up red, giving her the appearance of a naughty baby.  “No… Cupcake is like… ummm… a smart girl.”


Ahhhh, why can’t I just say what I’m thinking???  Why can’t I think straight at all???  Why is it so fucking hard????


“I’m not a dum dum.” was all that escaped from this tirade of inner turmoil, echoing through Cupcake’s empty head.


Melvin erupted into laughter at this response, shaking his head back and forth.  “Silly, silly girl.  If you must persist… I’ll prove it to you.”


“Huh?” said Cupcake.


Melvin reached across the floor and came back with a small doll, dressed almost exactly as Cupcake was now dressed.


In an instance, all the tears ceased and Cupcake reached out to embrace the pretty doll.


“Dolly!” squealed the young girl as Melvin handed over the doll.  Squeezing it to her chest, Cupcake was in heaven.


“Now that you’ve seen how silly and happy you can be in the strand of a few seconds… I’ll show you how scared and submissive you can be a second later.”


Cupcake looked up at Melvin, frightened, as he lifted her off his lap.  The doll dropped from her hands as Melvin suddenly forced her down over his lap, ass towards the ceiling, head towards the pink carpet.


It was close to an 15 minutes later when Melvin finished spanking the bubble ass of his new wife, and Cupcake was reduced to a whimpering baby with a sore behind.


Hours later, Cupcake lay, locked in her crib… binky gag securely inserted in her new mouth… the night’s dinner wastes resting in her diaper… and the vibrator buzzing merrily in her cunt.


The first weekend was over… the first week was about to begin.


Continued in Chapter 4, “Walking The Dog”…


If you liked this third chapter of my story, “Becoming Cupcake,” let me know.  I have more planned for Allison where her transformation into Cupcake will continue and grow worse for her.  But I’d like some feedback on what I’ve typed so far.  So email me at  Hope you’re enjoying this story so far.  The fan mail has been very instrumental in providing me a direction on where to take this story.  Which is why I have created an account solely for the purpose of feedback from each story.  So PLEASE email me if you like where I’m taking the story.  I can always use more encouragement.


Later – The Mayor


On the Table

I have posted this piece here after the Benfanstorybox Yahoo Group folded so that it is not lost.

CONTENT WARNING: This is an erotic horror story dealing in extreme themes such as abduction, nonconsensual sexual acts, body modification and objectification, and what might be called torture. Despite frequent use of the term “girl” all characters are 18 or over. This story is intended as pure fantasy for the enjoyment of ADULTS ONLY. Please do not repost this story to any site frequented by minors, or remove this warning.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This somewhat long story was originally written as a serial.  For best enjoyment I suggest taking a break after each chapter.

Thanks to Alex Streuth, Ted E. Bear, H. Dean, Doggers, and the many others who have taken the time to offer encouragement and suggestions that have made his story better than I could have alone.

– BF

“On the Table”

by Benfan

Chapter 1 – Welcome

When the girl woke up she first thought the bright light in her eyes was the Sun, shining through the window of her bedroom as it did on so many blue-skied mornings. Then she felt the pain. Not sharp, stabbing pain, but a deep slow burning and soreness that came from points all over her body. The pain brought her almost fully awake, and she realized the light in her eyes was not the Sun.

She was on her back, laying not in her bed but on something firmer, and staring up into a constellation of floodlights. After a moment of disorientation – she had difficulty clearing her head – her last waking memory returned to her.

It was dark. She was walking from her dorm to the college pool for morning practice in the black quiet hours before dawn. Suddenly she heard a noise, and as she turned strong hands grasped her. More than two hands. A foul-smelling cloth was clamped over her face and even as she remembered to scream her vision faded….

And now she lay on what felt like a padded table, staring up into the lights. She felt air on her skin and realized she was naked, but the room was warm enough that she did not feel cold. She tried to raise her head, but found it was restrained by a band across her forehead. The back of her head sat in a sculpted headrest, and the cunning restraint held her head securely enough that she was prevented even from turning it from side to side. She tried to raise her arms but they did not respond. Her arms just tingled faintly – she felt no restraints on them but they wouldn’t respond. The effort served only to awaken fresh, jangling pain in her shoulders. Across her torso and legs she felt many rigid bands. When she tried to twist within their grasp, to test their strength, she felt strangely weak. Her body was slow to answer her commands, sluggish, and moved without the power she was accustomed to feeling as an athletic young woman, a top diver on her college team.

Feeling oddly detached, she wondered why she hadn’t panicked in the midst of this nightmare. Was it a nightmare? No, she didn’t think so. It just felt dreamy. Her mind was moving as slowly as her body. She had been drugged.

Fighting the cobwebs that she could not quite sweep from her mind, she took in her surroundings. The bands held her unyieldingly, but not uncomfortably. She guessed they were of padded metal. Her firm buttocks were cradled in a seat or saddle that fitted her closely so that, as with the headrest, a few strategic bands across the front of her hips and the tops of her thighs held her pelvis securely. Her private area was exposed to the air, and felt somehow odd. Above her, the floodlights hung from a flat white ceiling. In their midst and directly above her head a video screen was mounted, facing down at her. The screen was dark but a small green light glowed at the edge nearest her toes, and what looked like a tiny camera sprouted from the opposite edge and pointed down at her. Rolling her eyes as far as she could to all sides, she could see all four walls of her little room, at least their upper portions, and they were white. To the right she could see the top of a door frame, with a white door standing closed within. From the left side of her table, near her feet, a shiny metal rod rose, and from it hung a plastic bag filled with clear liquid. A thin clear tube dangled from the bag – she was on an IV. Next to the rod she could see the top of a strange box that might have been medical equipment of some kind.

Was she in a hospital? Had she had an accident? No, she remembered the attack. Maybe she had been kidnapped, but rescued, and was in a hospital now. Then why the restraints, why was she naked? She tried to envision some explanation for these things that did not fill her with dread. Finally her drug-hobbled mind admitted that her ordeal – whatever its nature – must be just beginning rather than ending. She closed her eyes and cried quietly.

After a time the tears ebbed. Being unable to raise her head to see herself the girl concentrated on reading the signals sent from the various parts of her body. She seemed at first to be covered in pain, but as she listened carefully to her body she could feel exactly where she had been injured. The pain was concentrated in her feet, her shoulders, her tummy, and her chest. Her feet hurt the worst, and were splinted or otherwise immobilized with her toes pointing straight away from her head. She felt what might have been gauze dressings on her shoulders. She tried again and still couldn’t move her arms, or gain any real sensation from them, as though they had fallen asleep. Maybe her arm straps had been fixed too tight, cutting off the circulation? Her breasts made burning complaints, and sharp knives were lodged in her sides, making movement painful. In her abdomen, she felt a strange combination of swelling and emptiness, not like hunger, and a deep soreness that seemed to penetrate her very core.

The quiet was suddenly broken by the sound of the door opening and the clack of leather-soled footsteps on a hard floor. After the quiet time since her awakening, which had lasted she knew not how long, the everyday sounds were as startling as gunfire.

“Hello!” said a pleasant voice, and the face of a dark haired, middleaged, spectacled man moved into her field of vision. He was wearing a white coat, and seemed familiar with the place as he looked quickly at the medical equipment and at a chart which had been hanging at the side of her bed. “You’ll have to excuse me for keeping you waiting, I was attending another subject when I’d heard you’d awakened. I’m sure you have many questions.”

The girl tried to speak, but her mouth felt even more sluggish than the rest of her body. Her jaw felt stiff and her tongue flopped like dead meat, and the only sound that came from her lips sounded like “gullll.” The man chuckled.

“I didn’t expect you to actually ask questions. As part of your recovery regimen you have been given powerful drugs that I know make it difficult to speak. But I can guess some of the things you’d like to know.” He adjusted his glasses and lapsed into a scripted delivery:

“Where are you? You are in a private and exclusive clinic specializing in body and behavior modification. The precise location is unimportant. Our primary business is the recruitment, development, and training of custom pleasure companions for a wealthy international clientele.”

“Who am I? I am the specialist in charge of your development. You may think of me as your doctor.”

“Why are you here? You were selected because of certain physical and temperamental characteristics that make you a promising subject for our work here. Let’s see…” he flipped through the pages of the chart, which was clipped into a hinged aluminum case and included paper forms, photographs, even x-rays. “Age, 20 – that’s ideal. Physically mature but far enough removed from the effects of age to make investment in your modifications worthwhile. Your personality shows a high level of sexual curiosity, natural submissiveness, and suggestibility.” The doctor looked up from the chart.

“Do you remember that funny hypnotist who brought his act to your campus, put you under so easily and made you do all those silly things I’m sure your friends kept teasing you about? He was one of our scouts.” He turned his eyes to the chart case again.

“Physically you possess excellent skin clarity and tone, which being the most difficult thing to correct is the one real requirement for subjects here. Ethnicity: Caucasian, East Mediterranean subgroup. Eyes: brown. Hair: dark auburn and naturally curly. That’s cute, we’ll see if you get to keep it. Height: 159 cm – on the short side but within desirable parameters. Hip-to-waist ratio 1.6, upon recruitment…that’s a very good number!” He made eye contact and smiled, making clear that this odd reference to her hips – which the girl considered embarrassingly broad – was a compliment. “Your shoulder span is wider than average and your spine straight and healthy, with well developed musculature, so you are a fine candidate for a mammary maximization program.”

He was going much too fast for the girl’s impaired brain to absorb all he said, but she was increasingly horrified by the tone he used as he spoke about her body – as though she were a project rather than a patient, an object without thoughts or feelings of her own.

“What have we done to you?” The “doctor” continued, adjusting his glasses again as he returned to the chart. “Well, quite a bit actually. You’ve been under sedation here at the clinic for 4 days, during which we have done most of the heavier work in developing you for your new role as an ‘fantasy’ pleasure companion. It’s dangerous to keep you under for much longer than that, so we’ve allowed you to awaken while keeping you on a cocktail of muscle relaxants and tranquilizers. Otherwise, you might thrash about and cause unsightly scarring at the sites of your recent procedures….which we wouldn’t want, would we? And of course it is easier for everyone if you remain compliant while we perform the remainder of the procedures that have been ordered.”

“In terms of what we’ve done so far: one of our talented surgeons has narrowed your feet, for aesthetic appeal, and reinforced them to facilitate walking ‘en pointe’ – like a ballerina – without dislocating your toes or turning your ankles.”

“Your mammary enhancement is well underway, using a procedure developed right here at the clinic. Your natural bust…” – he paused to flip through the chart – “a D cup, was a little larger than average for your build, but we can do much better. Our surgeon has removed most of the fatty tissue in your breasts and implanted highly elastic polymer sacs. Now we will inject, at intervals, a solution into the sacs, through ports installed in your armpits. You’ve had two courses of injections already, while you slept. As the sacs are inflated, they will stretch your breasts, and we will give you oral and topical supplements to encourage the growth of new skin. Don’t worry, the schedule’s been worked out so there will be a minimum of stretch marks, we know what we’re doing. When we have grown your breasts to the ordered size, which is, let me see…” He flipped through the chart again.

“10,000 CCs…. oh my!” he laughed. “Well, you do have the skeletal structure to carry that. When we’ve expanded you to within 80% of that point we’ll make a final injection of a small amount of catalyst that will cause the liquid to expand to the ordered volume and congeal into a soft, slightly foamy plastic. The final look and feel will be quite similar to natural breasts – except that since the foam is a little less dense than natural tissue, and the sacs add resilience, your breasts will resist gravity somewhat better than homegrown breasts of similar size. Then the valves in your armpits will be removed and the wounds closed.”

Through the shock and drug-induced fog the girl latched onto the number “10,000 CCs,” and tried to understand what that meant. She had always been good with metric conversions….1,000 CCs in a liter, 10 liters…. a liter is just a little bigger than a quart, so….more than two and a half gallons? And was that the total volume he intended for both her poor boobies, or was that for…each?!?

The doctor was droning on. “…lower abdomen, and we’ll probably do more lipo at a few other points later. We’ve enhanced your already fine hip-to-waist ratio by removing the two lowest sets of ribs and a portion of your small intestine, which you won’t need on your new diet. After the swelling goes down you’ll probably be around 1.9 or a little better, even before we begin any corset training. You have the potential to become a truly spectacular specimen in that department. And we’ve helped that H2W further, while preventing the usual female issues from posing inconveniences in your planned role, by performing a hysterectomy. No more messy periods, or mood swings, or worries about getting pregnant. We did all the abdominal work arthroscopically, via the vagina, so there are no external scars.” The doctor sounded proud. The girl began to cry again.

“We’ve also made,” he looked quickly at her groin, then bent to examine the dressings at her shoulders, “some other modifications that are currently fashionable…”

The girl didn’t hear the last part, having given way finally to a sedated despair at learning that her womb had been excised. At first she didn’t believe it, but as she tuned her senses to her tummy she knew it was true: in the midst of the soreness and postsurgical swelling was a profound hollowness.

Sexually curious? Was he calling her a slut? She wasn’t a virgin, but she was a nice girl. She didn’t want to be a “fantasy pleasure companion!” She wanted to find a husband someday, have a family….

Had wanted to. Tears poured from the corners of her brown eyes, closed again now against the brightness of the lights on the ceiling, and little whines escaped her slack lips.

The doctor stopped his dissertation and looked down at her with a frown that might, for a moment, have suggested pity. Then he sighed, and turned, and left her field of vision briefly. Through her physical and emotional agony the girl heard a chorus of metallic rattles, as the doctor wheeled a stool and a small cart to the head of her table.

“Well, there’s nothing to do about it now,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll come to see the advantages eventually. Meanwhile, we still have a lot of work to do.”

Just out of the girl’s view, the doctor donned some light plastic gauntlets, then snapped white latex gloves over them. He spoke into a small microphone clipped to his coat:

“Nurse Twelve, bring a set of oral restraints to room G.”  The “doctor” hummed a little tune while he fidgeted with some tools outside the restrained girl’s field of vision. Then he turned and rolled his stool over to look into her face.

“I know you’ve been properly hydrated but your mouth is probably very dry. Let me wet it for you.”

He broke the seal on a plastic bottle and poured water over a stack of small gauze pads. Once they were soaked, he held the dripping wad in front of his still weeping captive’s mouth and raised his eyebrows at her. Slowly she spread her jaws and the doctor began to swab around her lips and inside her mouth.

It felt wonderful; she hadn’t realized how dry she had been. She wondered whether she should be grateful for this small kindness, though it came from her captor, a man who was a partner in her mutilation. It was all very confusing. She remembered one of the things he had said about her profile: “naturally submissive.” She closed her eyes in shame.

“That’s better now. I need to keep you on the IV a bit longer, but I don’t want your tongue or other tissues to be too dry – that would increase the irritation and bleeding from the procedures we still need to do.”

The girl realized the doctor’s actions had nothing to do with kindness. Moistening her lips and mouth had been intended only to serve his needs, as he converted her into some kind of freakish living Barbie. She scowled, as best she could. She should have bitten him.

She couldn’t know that under his latex gloves he wore plastic armor on his fingers. One of his purposes had been to test her readiness to submit. He looked down at her furrowed brow and angry stare, and smiled.

“What, giving me the evil eye? We’ll put a stop to that soon enough.”

The door opened with a bang and another cart rattled into the room, followed by a new set of footsteps. The nurse entered and pushed her cart toward the foot of the table, so that the bound girl’s first view of her was from behind. She was wearing what appeared to be the traditional white uniform, but with a shiny black garment underneath. A glistening dark sheath hid the flesh of her neck, and descended into a white fabric uniform blouse. The arms that projected from the short sleeves of the blouse were likewise clad in shiny black rubber or plastic, with a baggy fit to allow movement. The table-bound girl did not see any hair behind the pointy white cap.

The nurse glided across the floor with quick, short steps that clicked on the hard floor. She disappeared momentarily as she bent to pick some equipment up off the cart. When she turned and carried it toward the doctor near the head of the table, the restrained girl finally caught a glimpse of her face. The thought occurred to her suddenly that her abductors might be space aliens.

Under her nurse’s cap the attendant’s face was covered by a shiny black mask. Large convex mirrored lenses covered the eyes, hiding them completely. The lower part of the mask projected slightly, and might have enclosed a short snout just as easily as a human face. There was no obvious nose opening, but a round, rubber-rimmed port projected in front, where a human mouth would be. A metallic mesh was recessed into the port, closing it, and through this grille a faint gasp of air could be heard passing in and out.

After all the shocks she had suffered since awakening, the girl still somehow found the nurse the most terrifying thing that she had yet encountered. Her eyes widened and nerves fired all over her body, as her flesh rose in goose pimples and her muscles tensed against the unyielding bands.

The developer was less alarmed by the nurse’s entrance. “Yes, Twelve, right there is fine. Now check the subject’s catheters while I set up the restraints. I think she’s due for a purge.”

The nurse did not speak or nod but clicked smoothly toward the foot of the table, out of the terrified girl’s field of vision. In a moment she felt rubbery fingers brushing the insides of her slightly spread thighs. There was a sudden tug that seemed to reach right into her, followed by a dull burning in her bladder. Then another tug that pulled directly on her bowel. Between the drugs and all her more pressing concerns the girl hadn’t really noticed them before, but after this demonstration she became aware of unfamiliar intrusions in her urethra and anus.

The nurse must have signaled to the “doctor,” as he gave further orders while fiddling with some kind of complicated chrome bracket. “OK, do a urine dump, then a 500 CC colonic.”

The nurse must have opened a valve, as the girl suddenly felt an easing of what had been mild pressure in her bladder. Her pee flowed silently out of her, apparently through a tube into a receptacle somewhere. It was a very odd sensation, to be deprived of any control over such a basic and private function. She blushed again as her terror faded, overruled by humiliation.

The developer bent over her to fix the strange bracket to the table, next to her mouth. As he picked up a second, similar device from the cart and fiddled with it his captive felt a rush of cool liquid into her bowel. It continued until she felt a little bloated, but not yet uncomfortable. Her guts began to churn slightly as the liquid sloshed inside her.

“That’s not water, it’s a mild cleansing solution, so you may feel some cramping. But it will keep you clean and healthy.” The white coated man spoke absently, as he mounted the second bracket next to her mouth, opposite the first. The shiny articulated arms were shaped like double-Ls, with many curved projections and knobs. The inner ends groped like sinister robotic fingers toward the corners of the girl’s mouth.

The first mild cramps hit as the developer spoke again. “OK, now open your mouth again for me.” The girl had no illusions this time that the “doctor’s” intentions were merciful, and clamped her lips as she stared at the ceiling. She felt his eyes on her but focused on the blank video screen that hung above, fighting the urge to meet the doctor’s gaze. The only sound she heard was the raspy breath of the nurse, out of view somewhere near the foot of the table.



Chapter 2 – Open Wide

“I said: open your mouth.”

The girl’s chin trembled but her eyes remained fixed on the dark video monitor above her face, her lips tightly shut. She understood now that there was no mercy or kindness here, no thought for her welfare. These people saw her as an object, a raw material to be twisted and shaped to suit their perverted fantasies. She was damned if she was going to just lay there and obey, facilitating her own mutilation. Despite the tranquilizers she was filling rapidly with terror at the thought of what they might do to force her, but still she was determined to fight!

The developer sighed quietly, disappointed. “Trying to be stubborn? I thought you were smarter than that. You know, there’s really no way for you to resist. In your current condition I could easily pry your jaws open. But it’s important for your training that you decide yourself to come along with our program. Right now, you may not think it’s a good idea to open your mouth, but there are many techniques I could employ to convince you otherwise. Do we really need to explore those alternatives?”

He paused for a while to let her imagination operate. In a moment, dozens of gruesome images played across her brain, from horror movies and the tales of ancient martyrs. She shivered, and broke into a sweat at the same time. The little cramps from the soapy enema still inside her grew more frequent, but the girl held her gaze on the monitor, and her lips shut. She felt she had to make a stand, to prove that she was not “naturally submissive,” as their profile so blandly indicted. The thought occurred to her that if she proved herself a less than ideal subject, they might let her go! Or, she realized, they might dispose of her. It was a chance she had to take.

“Well, I have a schedule to keep, and it doesn’t include time for negotiations with a silly girl. Nurse, drain the colonic.” In a moment the horrible fluid began to rush silently out of the girl, and her bowel eased.

Was that it? Had she won?

“As soon as she’s empty give her 1,000 CC of the punitive solution. And prepare 250 CC of the capsicum in a syringe, and connect it to the urinary catheter.”

While the nurse could be heard busying herself the developer turned back to their subject and spoke with mild condescension, as though her display of courage was just a waste of everyone’s time.

“Do you understand what that means? That means I’m getting ready to pump about half a pint of hot pepper sauce into your bladder, and hold it in there. Can you imagine what that will feel like?”

In her terror the girl lost her focus for a moment, and her eyes met the doctor’s. He looked so calm, so patient, so…superior. She had to blink to break the stare, and refocused her eyes on the monitor. Her chin quivered, but her lips stayed shut.

“Yes, go ahead,” the developer ordered the nurse, and cool fluid rushed again through the plastic tube that violated the girl’s anus, flooding her bowel. This time it did not stop before the point of discomfort, but continued to rush in under pressure. She tried to tighten her abdomen to fight the flow, but it was no use. It continued until she was painfully bloated, and even after the valve was closed the sloshing and gurgling continued as the pressurized liquid forced its way high into her colon.

This “punitive” solution was more concentrated than the mild “cleansing” solution she’d taken earlier, and the cramps began immediately. Within a minute they had built from intermittent tugs on her guts to rapid-fire combinations of stomach punches. She would have doubled over with the pain, but the head-to-toe restraints held her firmly even as she bucked against them.

“You see, the muscle relaxants are not so effective against involuntary contractions, like those in the intestines. Is the futility of your situation becoming clear to you yet?”

Tears flowed again from the corners of the girl’s eyes, and she whimpered, but her lips remained closed. Part of her, a growing part, knew this effort was futile indeed, but the greater part still saw making a stand here as her best, maybe last, chance for freedom. For minutes that seemed like hours, she endured the torture dealt her by the involuntary responses of her own guts.

“Give her another 500 CC.” The developer could inject the pepper solution into his subject’s urinary tract, if she made it necessary, but he didn’t really want to. There was a small chance of infection and that would put her development behind schedule. Deep bowel irrigation, on the other hand, was actually helpful in ensuring his subject a good recovery from her abdominal surgeries. The anal valve opened again and more sterile, soapy water flowed into the restrained girl. Besides the barrage of heavyweight gut-punches there was a continual pain now, from the distension and from the extended period of brutal cramping.

“That’s one and a half liters now.” The doctor spoke coolly, patiently. “The tank this system draws from holds fifty liters. A little while ago you seemed upset that we’d sterilized you. Well, if you insist on continuing this ridiculous tantrum, we can easily make you look like you’re carrying triplets.” Unlike the capsicum, this threat was empty. The girl’s bowel was already holding nearly the maximum volume the doctor considered safe, given her recent surgeries. But as she writhed against the bands his experienced eyes could detect, in the softening of her expression and the growing sluggishness of her efforts, that she was breaking.

He allowed her to be punished by her own body for a few minutes longer, until he judged the moment right. “Really, my girl, time does have value. Shall I give you another half liter? Or perhaps it’s time for the pepper?” A pause.


“leeeeuhh!” A slurred, tired squeak came from the drugged lips of the dark-haired girl on the table.

“Just a moment, Twelve. What was that again?”

“pleeeth. thtop.”

“Are you ready to behave sensibly?”

She didn’t want to say it. She tried just to nod, but the head restraint prevented her.



“Are you going to open your mouth wide and hold it open while I do the work that has been ordered for you?”

A pause, and another battering of cramps, like lead pipes beating on her tummy. “Yethh.”

The weeping girl looked into her doctor’s eyes. She looked for evil, for a glint of sadistic delight taken in the suffering he’d inflicted on her. All she saw was calm, and confidence, and complete control. Control over himself, over the nurse, over her, over her entire world. Which at this moment was a bright white room about 16 feet square.


“Drain it, nurse, but keep your finger on the plunger of the capsicum syringe in case she changes her mind.” It hadn’t taken long for the developer to break this display of resistance, but the girl had been considerably weakened before he’d begun – by the surgeries, the drugs, the disorientation that was typical at the start of the development process. Many of the subjects he’d worked with had not resisted at all when in such a state. He would monitor this one’s training carefully as her development progressed.

The remote-controlled valve was opened and the punishing fluid gushed out of the captive’s bowel, through a tube that ran under the table and into the floor. Even as it flowed, and the cramps slowly subsided, the developer rolled his stool next to the girl’s head and began manipulating the strange shiny brackets. They rose at either side of the confining headrest, then bent inwards toward the corners of her mouth. He looked into his subject’s wet brown eyes and at a raise of his brows she parted her lips.

“Wider,” he commanded, and slowly she gaped, while her eyes rolled toward the wall behind her restrained head to avoid seeing what new horrors were in store for her. She felt his latex-clad fingers in her mouth and thought again to bite. But fear kept her jaw propped wide, and she lay there in horror, and shame at her cowardice, as he swung the cool steel arms into her mouth. First from one side, then the other. He began adjusting the many knobs that studded the devices. She felt smooth polished metal pressing against her palate, pushing her head back firmly into the restraining headrest.

The doctor seemed to reach through the table to adjust the headrest, dropping it slightly to tilt her head a bit further back. She realized that instead of being mounted to the surface of the table as she’d visualized, the headrest projected out from it on an adjustable arm, fixing her head in position while it hung over the table’s edge. Next, she felt more metal fingers groping beneath her tongue, behind her lower front teeth. A padded, rigid cup was fitted over her chin, then bolted to the system. As the attachment was tightened, her jaw was clamped firmly to the lower arms of the strange apparatus.

“First, some measurements.” The nurse made a quiet rustle of preparations while the doctor rolled his stool into position above his subject’s head, so that he appeared upside down from her point of view and could see straight down her throat. He began turning a knob that forced her wider. The pressure grew but he continued on at a steady pace until she feared her jaw would be dislocated.


“Don’t worry, I have a torque indicator here, I’m not going to injure you.” He stopped turning the knob just before the girl was sure her head was going to be split in half, then busied himself for a while applying various calipers and rulers to the inside of her mouth. Twice she gagged when his instrument invaded the top of her vulnerable throat, but each time he removed it quickly, having obtained the needed measurement. Now and then he would turn to jot notes on her chart. Her jaw muscles began to cramp badly, and she wished she could wiggle her lifeless fingers, or her poor splinted toes, just to take her mind off her tortured mouth. But she was held utterly fast.

She thought her jaw was about to break itself against the unyielding spreader when the developer finally loosened the knob a few turns, reducing the pressure to a tolerable level. His hand reached toward the cart and returned with a large, broad-bladed forceps.

“Your tongue, please.”

She hesitated, but her tummy was still terribly sore from its battle with the cruel enema. She lifted her tongue away from the bottom of her mouth. The developer reached in with the forceps and grabbed it quickly, then adjusted his grip to center the soft appendage properly between the tool’s curved blades. Then he squeezed a bit harder and drew the girl’s tongue out of her mouth until her eyes bulged. Tiny blunt teeth on the inner surfaces of the forceps held the slippery flesh securely. The doctor used a small metal ruler to measure the width of her tongue in several places, and its extended length from the back of her teeth to the tip.

Next, still holding her tongue extended, he set the ruler down and picked up an unusual pair of chrome pliers. A small hollow cylinder projected from the inner side of one jaw; a corresponding hole waited in the opposite jaw. The frightening nurse moved into the girl’s view beside the doctor, distracting her for a moment. Quickly, the doctor double-checked that the tongue remained properly positioned within the forcep’s grasp, then aligned the post on the plier’s jaw with a set of holes in the forceps’ blades. The tool was surgically sharp and with a quick squeeze, and a squeak of pain, the girl gained a 4mm piercing not far from the tip of her tongue.

The nurse moved quickly to blot the wound with a foul-tasting unguent while the doctor continued to hold the tongue extended, and their subject quietly whimpered. She regretted bitterly her surrender to the enema. The sense of resignation she had felt minutes before was turning back again to horror and denial.

Setting down the piercing tool the doctor picked up a similar-looking device, and when the nurse had swabbed the area thoroughly he positioned it over the same hole and squeezed. The newly-pierced girl flinched but this time there was no pain, only a strange pressure that remained even after he had set the tool back on the cart.

“There, your first piercing and grommet. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He stretched her tongue out and then down, over her lower lip and toward her chin, where his other hand made a quick hidden adjustment before he released the forceps’ grasp.

The girl moaned with relief that her abused tongue had been freed, but found she could not draw it back into her mouth. When she tried there was an insistent tugging at the piercing. It took her a few moments of careful testing to figure out that her tongue had been impaled, through its new perforation, on a curved stud that projected from her chin-cup. It was kept from lifting off the stud by a metal bar – the harder she tried to pull her tongue in, the tighter the bar clamped across it. Her pierced tongue was held securely, fully extended and nearly touching the point of her chin, like a belt in a buckle.

“Aaaaaaeeeeeeiiiiiiiiuhhhh!” This small but shocking addition to her restraints was suddenly too much for the helpless co-ed. Piercing squeals erupted from her propped-open mouth, and she bucked in her restraints.

The doctor recognized in his subject a primal panic that he couldn’t reason with, but didn’t have time to wait out. “Nurse, give her the next course of tranqs now. She’s almost due anyway. But make a note that’s the last course unless I order otherwise. She needs to be alert soon, to begin her training.” The rubber-clad attendant silently injected the contents of a syringe into a port in the subject’s IV tube, and in a minute or two the noise and writhing subsided. Finally the bound victim lay still, moaning softly, flushed all over her body and covered in sweat.

“Dry her and drape her for a few minutes, we don’t want her to catch a chill.” While the nurse briskly toweled the restrained subject, the doctor stood over her face.

“You’ve got to control yourself now, we have delicate work to do here. You don’t want me to disfigure you in some unplanned way, do you?”

After drying her, the nurse draped her charge with a light blanket that covered her from collarbones to knee. By the time she was done the girl was breathing easily again, and the developer returned to his stool and resumed giving orders.

“The botox now, Twelve. I’ll need the number 8s right now and you might as well start getting the 20s ready, too. Oh, ready already? Good, I see you’re not completely incompetent.” He moved back to the cart and with the nurse made another clattering of instruments. When he rolled back to the position above his subject’s head, he was wearing a headlamp, and holding a stainless steel syringe tipped with a very long needle that looked positively enormous when held inches before his captive’s upturned face. The needle glistened in the light of his headlamp.

“Feeling more relaxed? Good. I know you’d like to rest but we have a way yet to go.” He glanced at the syringe.

“This is botox. You’ve probably heard of it as a treatment for wrinkles. What a lot of people – even some who get those treatments – don’t realize is that the name is short for ‘botulism toxin.’ It’s a powerful nerve poison, and works to eliminate wrinkles by paralyzing the muscles that pull on the skin. We use it here for that purpose, in renovating pleasure companions who are showing signs of age, but we’ve also found many other applications for it.”

The helpless girl’s brown eyes widened as he lowered the needle past her stretched tongue, past her wide-spread lips, and deep into her propped-open mouth.

“Don’t worry, this only hurts for moments….”



Chapter 3 – The Mask

No tranquilizer could completely block the fear that mounted in the pretty, bound girl as inch after inch of the needle and shiny steel syringe disappeared into her gaping mouth. Her tormentor felt her quivering, and quietly sought to calm her. “Easy, relax… It’s very important that I locate the injections precisely.”

The point of the needle must be a foot past her lips, the girl thought as she closed her eyes, unable to watch any more. Was he going to reach directly into her stomach? Then she felt a jab far down in her throat, followed by a brief burning sensation as the botox was injected. The burning faded quickly to numbness as the toxin acted on the local nerves. The series of sensations was repeated in a different spot, then another, as the doctor worked his way from deep in her throat back up towards her mouth.

“What I’m doing now…” the developer spoke in clipped phrases, in between the injections. “Is eliminating………a most undesirable, involuntary reaction…….for a girl in the role you’ll soon enjoy…….which is called……..the reaction is called, I should say……..the role I’ve already told you……the reaction is called…….the ‘gag reflex.’ There, that should do it.”

He withdrew the syringe and set it on the cart, then returned holding a telescoping metal probe with a shiny white ball on its end.

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” He extended the probe and slowly passed the soft ball into his subject’s mouth. She flinched as it pushed past her tonsils but then – nothing. The ball was just large enough to fill her throat, gently blocking it, but it produced no response as her captor slid it slowly back and forth inside her neck. She could feel its presence, except in a few dead spots, but there was no gagging or choking reaction. Her developer smiled as he withdrew the probe, and the restrained girl gasped a breath.

“That’s good, all done on the first try.”  The doctor was in a chipper mood, clearly pleased with his own skills, and chattered while he leaned over the cart handling his instruments.  “I’ve deadened the nerves in your throat that trigger a gagging reaction when a … foreign object is inserted. You’ll be much better at some of the most important tasks you’ll be expected to perform in your new role. The down side to this procedure is that a person would have to chew and swallow their food more carefully, to avoid choking, but that’s not going to be an issue for you.”

This was all about oral sex, the girl knew. She was not stupid, nor so innocent as to be confused by the doctor’s euphemisms. She didn’t get much direct pleasure out of giving a blowjob, but her boyfriends always seemed keen on her “hummers” and she reveled in their pleasure and especially in the approval she received from the kinder of the boys that she’d serviced that way. She liked to think she’d become fairly skilled in the act. But the image in her mind now – of a long hard cock shoved into her propped-open mouth and down her throat, where she’d just been stripped of her last defenses against the sticky goo it would pump into her belly – that was a different thing entirely from the scenario she was accustomed to, where she felt like she was the partner more in control.

The girl thought she should be sick at the vision that the rubber-ball experiment had provided of her future sexual role. But she was too overwhelmed, by this point in the session, to muster the appropriate revulsion. She determined to resist the degrading fate the evil “doctor” intended for her – as soon as she had a chance to rest.

“OK, moving right along….Twelve, let’s get her ready for the facial mapping.” Again the weird attendant glided into view. The nurse’s terrifying affect on the girl was fading – she realized that the poor creature was probably a victim herself of this “doctor” and his clinic. He spoke to the nurse not like a partner in his evil project, but like a slave. The “nurse” must have been brainwashed, or drugged, or otherwise programmed to serve at the clinic. The bound girl suddenly took pity on the rubber-sheathed attendant, and no longer saw her as an enemy.

The doctor reached up to his subject’s chin and released a catch. His latex-wrapped fingers grasped her stretched tongue at the tip, lifted it off the curved stud, and let it drop. The girl reeled it slowly in – her tongue was still sluggish from the drugs, and now numb and sore as well after its enforced extension. As the piercing passed her lower teeth she felt a click. Rubbing her tongue against her teeth she felt no projection, just flat metal around the hole. She wasn’t sure exactly what a “grommet” was but it seemed her captor had lined the piercing with metal. That must be why the bleeding had stopped so quickly, and why she had not torn her tongue when she’d panicked earlier, after it had been pinned to her chin.

The developer spun the knob that governed her gape until her lips barely touched, then raised her head back to the horizontal, in line with her torso. As he did this the nurse swabbed the girl’s face with a gauze pad that smelled of antiseptic. When they were done the doctor flipped through the aluminum chart case until he found a sheet of clear, semi-rigid plastic. As he bent it around her face, the girl saw a cutout for her nose, and many smaller holes all over the sheet. A few of them corresponded to pegs on the brackets that grasped her jaws, and the developer adjusted the spacing of the clamps until pegs and holes aligned perfectly. He checked that black Xs on the upper part of the sheet lay directly above the pupils of his subject’s brown eyes, and after wrapping the sheet around the sides of her face, that other marks lined up with landmarks on her ears. Judging that the sheet was properly registered, he used bits of surgical tape that the nurse tore off and handed him to secure it, then checked the registration again. Satisfied, he opened a drawer in the cart and took out a handful of felt-tipped pens in an assortment of colors.

“Try to keep your face as quiet and relaxed as possible,” he told the girl quietly. “Accuracy here is very important to your future appearance.”

The girl felt far past caring about her appearance. Did it matter how pretty a sex slave she became? She was close to total exhaustion, emotionally even more than physically. But, felt pens were the least frightening instruments she’d been threatened with since her awakening in this little room so many hours…or was it days….ago. It was an easy choice to conserve what energy she had left, maybe even steal a little rest. But also a part of her believed that, given the options before her, it was better to be a pretty slave than a disfigured one.

She lay passive and relaxed, staring through the blurry black Xs at the monitor overhead. The voices of resistance and resignation were both muted by her profound fatigue. The doctor began to poke the various felt pens through the holes in the sheet, covering her face with multi-colored dots.


“Hey, no sleeping yet!” The bound girl’s eyes snapped open. Had she actually been able to nod off in the middle of this bright, waking nightmare? She was so tired…

“Twelve, remove the drape, I think our girl is getting a little too comfortable!” She felt the miniature blanket drawn away toward her feet. She was naked again under the lights.

“I’m just finishing the mapping, then one more procedure before we take a break. There.” After pressing a green felt pen one last time to her face, the doctor capped it, set it down, and began peeling off the plastic template. “You were very good, and I think the mapping went very well. That makes the next phase easier. Oh, I almost forgot. From here on you get to enjoy the show!”

He rolled his stool the short distance to the wall, near the door to the little room. A flipping of switches was heard, and a small red lamp ignited on the camera mounted on the ceiling, above the bound captive. There was a flash of static on the monitor, followed by a horrifying image: the girl’s own face.

The camera was zoomed in close, so she could only see herself from the neck up. She had been right about the armature holding her head: except for the shiny band across her forehead, the support was concealed behind her so that her head appeared to be floating a few feet above the white floor, her long red-brown hair bound behind her. The bright arms of the oral restraints entered from either side of the frame, their fingers reaching between her lips, which grimaced in an unconscious effort to keep clear of the intruding steel. On the shiny chin cup that clamped her jaw tightly to the restraint system, she could see the hook on which her tongue had been briefly impaled. Her face was covered with dozens of little dots in green, red, and blue; she could make no sense of the pattern other than that it was symmetrical on both sides of her face. She looked into her own eyes, red and swollen beneath knit brows that spoke of her suffering, and her shock at the sight of herself.

The developer rolled his stool back into position alongside her, and pulled the wheeled cart a little closer. When the girl saw his hands again, one brandished a small pistol-gripped tool and the other wielded a delicate plastic syringe from which a short needle projected. “The template helped me locate various nerve junctions under your skin. But the marks I’ve made are only a guide – this tool will stimulate the nerves so I can locate them precisely. The stimulation will feel a little strange but it’s not painful, and the injections are pinpricks compared to what you’ve had already. So do yourself a favor, just stay relaxed and keep still.”

The girl locked eyes with her mirror image as the doctor moved the “gun” and needle toward her face. She looked so tired, hurt, and lost. She just wanted to get this last procedure over with. It was only a wrinkle-prevention treatment, after all, and the doctor had promised a break afterwards. And, she admitted, she didn’t want to come out of this disfigured any more than necessary. The doctor pressed the little gun against a green dot low on her forehead, and squeezed. A tiny buzz, and what felt like a sharp tap. Her brow wiggled, and on the monitor she watched her eyebrows tug further inwards.

“Yep, right where it’s supposed to be. Be still now and this should go very easily. That’s a good girl.”

She stared at the monitor, and was almost surprised that the pained girl on the screen remained motionless as the syringe approached the green dot, then pricked the skin. There was the brief, now-familiar burning of botox, and she watched as the brows on the monitor relaxed slightly. The doctor touched the gun to another dot, confirmed the presence of another nerve center, and killed it with the syringe. Again and again he repeated the procedure, working around the center of the forehead, at a few points near the temples, then began working down either side of her face. After every three injections, he changed to a full syringe; the silent nurse had quietly moved next to the cart to sanitize and refill them. A few times the nerve junction was not directly under the dot plotted on her face, and he had to grope around for it with the stimulator, but he always found the reaction he sought eventually.

Dazed by exhaustion and the drugs that flowed through her veins, the captive girl was hypnotized by the process. As the needles worked their magic and her furrowed brow was smoothed, she watched as stress, fatigue, and pain melted away. Her sensations of physical pain and emotional distress seemed to decrease in response to the easing of her expression, so powerful was the suggestion of relief conveyed by the evolving image. Like many young women she was not very confident in her appearance, so she was fascinated to see that under the pattern of dots, as fear and tension departed the face on the monitor took on a glow of…beauty.

The doctor shifted his stool to attack some nerves along her lower right jawline. “Very good…you’re being very good dear… Just a few more spots.”

She watched as the corner of her lip, which had curled back involuntarily from the cool finger of the oral restraint, slowly relaxed and embraced it. As the doctor rolled around to her left side, the girl’s focus returned to the eyes on the monitor. She saw that the relaxation of her features had continued, glacially, as nerveless muscles gradually released their tension. The expression that had appeared peaceful a few minutes before now looked vacant.

Her euphoric trance was undermined by uneasiness – the spell was breaking. Hadn’t her doctor talked about botox as a treatment for wrinkles? This seemed to be much more. How many nerves had the many injections damaged? She realized that in her growing concern she felt as though she were wrinkling her brow – but the empty face on the monitor remained unperturbed. What had he done? She tried to squint and wrinkle her nose, but saw only the smallest response. She ordered her eyes to blink, and was answered with a flutter of lashes. She tried to raise her eyebrows and that worked somewhat, but there was better response from their outer reaches than at the inner corners.

The developer, finishing his work with the last few dots along her left jaw, noticed the experiments his subject was conducting on her upper face. “Relax now, you’ve been so good…..don’t make me miss a spot right here at the end…. You’ll have plenty of time to play with your new face…..botox wrinkle treatments are generally effective for two to five years….but since we strive to deliver products….that require the least possible maintenance….I’ve given you much stronger doses…and located them precisely at the proper junctions.” Having completed the last injections he straightened on his stool, and looked down at his handiwork.

“Given the typical lifespan for pleasure companions, this treatment is effectively permanent.”

Eyes that belonged to a bright, mildly insecure, exhausted and horrified student-athlete stared up at an image that was barely familiar. The girl who stared back from the video screen was calm, carefree, and….vapid.

Even at rest, sinews in the girl’s cheeks that had been left intact put gentle tension on her lips. Unopposed by the now paralyzed muscles along the lower jaw, they tugged the corners of her mouth slightly upwards, around the metal fingers of the oral clamps.

In the hard steel grip of its fearsome restraints, the pretty, pleasant face was smiling.




Chapter 4 – Visions

“Nurse, get her cleaned up. I need some images for marketing.”

The developer began turning knobs on the oral restraints while the silent, latex-garbed nurse again swabbed their bound subject’s face with an alcohol-soaked pad. On the ceiling monitor the captive watched as the colored dots were wiped away, along with a few specks of blood. The steel claws of the jaw clamps were released and swung back. At last her face was clean and free – except for the shiny steel band across her forehead, which held her firmly in the sculpted headrest. It felt wonderful to flex her jaw, and to feel blood rush back into the parts of her gums that had been compressed by the clamps while the doctor had done his work. Apparently the deep-seated muscles that operated her jaw had been unaffected by the botox treatment.

“There, isn’t that a pretty girl? Except for your eyes, so red and cranky. Soon we’ll cauterize the capillaries that make your eyes so puffy, but we usually wait to do the eyes until a subject’s been vended and the client specifies what style he’d prefer. For now, I have some drops that will clear you up.” He unscrewed a dropper-top from a small glass bottle and let stinging droplets fall into the wet brown eye of his captive subject. After the first set of drops warned her of the sting, he had to use his fingers to pry the lids of her other eye open while he administered the drops.

After a few moments the stinging began to fade and the girl opened her eyes again, blinking rapidly to clear them. On the monitor she saw the redness and swelling had diminished. Immediately she began to test the features of her face, to see how much damage the botox had done.

The same dopey little smile remained that she had first seen when in the grip of the oral restraints. She could expand the smile, but to frown or even maintain a neutral expression seemed impossible. She could pucker or pout her lips – in fact those motions came more naturally than in her prior life, and her pucker was now almost cartoonish – but she could not curl the lips back from her teeth. Her jaw worked fine, and she could blink her eyes – though the lids seemed to flap in odd detachment from their surroundings. She could not wrinkle her brow in fret, nor lower it in anger. When she tried to raise her eyebrows as though in fear, only the outer corners responded. Rather than conveying fright, the resulting expression resembled the arched “bad girl” stare of some black-and-white movie goddess.

Finally she relaxed and considered the face at rest. It belonged to a silly young tease: free of care, simple-minded, playful. That was the mask she would wear for the rest of her life.

The result of the carefully targeted botox overdosing was, in a sense, a horrifying disfigurement. But looking up at her new face the girl could not say that the treatment had left her scarred. In fact quite the opposite: the banishment of worry and fear from her face allowed a natural beauty to shine through as it seldom had before. Inside she felt abused and mutilated, but on the monitor her face looked relaxed, and pretty.

She noticed the red light on the overhead camera had been blinking.

“That was great – marketing will be able to cull a lot of good stills from that sequence.” The developer paused to tap some keys on a computer terminal outside the girl’s field of vision. “I’ve sent that last clip along. The boys in marketing will pick a few choice stills and use them, along with some computer-generated interpretations of what your body will look like when your mods are complete, to illustrate your notice of availability. That notice will be distributed very discretely, to previous clients of ours and to others who have been qualified as recipients. Shortly, based on those images and our report on your various measurements and potentials, you’ll be put up for auction. If you find a buyer at that time, he’ll be able to specify the rest of your modifications, and many details of your appearance.”

“I say ‘if you find a buyer,’ because the reserve price is set quite high for these pre-completion auctions. Many subjects don’t find a buyer at this stage. We complete those projects according to our own judgement and offer them for auction again after completion, and it’s possible that’s how it could go for you. But based on the performance you just gave and your physical potential, my guess is you’ll be one of the lucky ones who becomes a truly ‘custom’ pleasure companion.”

“Now, the client who makes a pre-completion purchase from our clinic gets to choose from a wide variety of options for his new toy. To help him choose – him or her, I should say: the great majority of our clients are male but we are an equal-opportunity vendor – to help them choose we use proprietary software to morph your features into an approximation of how the various options would look when stretched over your unique bone structure. I can tap into that program right here on your monitor – let me show you the possibilities.”

The developer tapped out a long series of keystrokes and the live image of the girl’s face snapped out. After a pause another image zoomed in, of a naked 3-dimensional female figure with arms outstretched and legs slightly spread. Most of the figure was portrayed in a generic, peachy “flesh” color, but as the view zoomed in the girl saw that her own face was superimposed on it – the new version of her face, with its wide eyes and mindless grin.

The proportions of the generic figure matched her image of her own body in some ways, but not others. She saw the wide hips she cursed her mother for, and the boyishly broad shoulders. But the waist was too narrow, the legs too trim. Her muscle tone looked good – recalling to her mind all those hours in the pool and the gym. But her big hips and shoulders and those silly boobs…what a cow she was.

“Skin Palettes, ok, Caucasian, here we go…”

Except for the face, the body on the monitor became pale, almost bluish white, with prominently pink nipples. “No, no….I’ll just scroll through the options.” In rapid succession the figure’s flesh tone changed from pallid to ebony to sallow, with stops in between at blushing white, brown, and California tan. Finally the doctor found a tone close to that of the girl’s superimposed face: light olive, like generations of her ancestors who had walked under the Mediterranean sun. Her nipples became light brown, the short-cropped and bikini-waxed fuzz about her private parts, dark.

“Good. This is a simulation based on how you appeared when we acquired you, modified to show how your various changes should look after swelling is reduced, dressings are removed, and etcetera.” The girl glanced at the figure’s feet, and noted they pointed straight down. They appeared too narrow and delicate, especially in contrast with her shapely athletic legs. Her gaze shot to the figure’s wide-spread arms. Her own remained numb and unresponsive – for all she knew, they might have been amputated. But the computer-generated figure retained all four limbs.

“Mah ahhmms…” Her partially paralyzed lips made it difficult to form words, and she still struggled with the various drugs as well.

“What was that?” Her doctor seemed surprised by his subject’s sudden effort at speech.

“Mah ahhmms. Wasss rung wit mah ahhmms.”

“Oh, your arms. We have performed several procedures that will affect your arms. We’ve taken the precaution of numbing them more thoroughly than the rest of your body, to protect them while they heal. But rest assured they’re still attached to your body.”

“Now then, here is how you’ll look when the mods we’ve already begun are completed.” At the tap of a key, the figure’s breasts began to swell, and its waist shrank. The captive girl’s eyes bugged as the boobs inflated like balloons. When the growth stopped, each of the monstrous mams was twice as big as the figure’s – her own – head. Their bottoms came down almost to her bellybutton and the sides projected well outside the frame of her ribcage. Her waist, just visible below the shaded 3-D jugs, had shrunk to a disproportionately small diameter. The torso of the modified figure was reduced to a collection of plump curved shapes: the two enormous boobs most prominently, joined at the pinched waist to the wide oval pelvic area.

“This is what we mean by ‘fantasy’ pleasure companion. Some of our clients use our talents to replicate female celebrities, or ex-wives. Be thankful you’re not a candidate for that latter role! You have been chosen by our staff, because of your natural potential, to be remade into an idealized female form.”

“See how your wide shoulders distribute the weight of those enormous tits? The skinny girls you were so jealous of when your sorority went clothes shopping in the city – yes, we were watching – those skinny girls couldn’t carry that kind of volume as gracefully. And look there: you have the hips of a fertility goddess. The computer hasn’t altered them at all, they just stand out a little better in this image because we’ve tucked in your waist and thighs a bit.”

The doctor looked into her face and added with apparent sincerity: “You were born for this role, my girl. It’s lucky we found you.”

The mind of the helplessly bound, tortured, and completely exhausted captive was far past processing all this with anything like logic or reason. A strange brew of thoughts and emotions bubbled in her head as she looked up at the image of what she was to become. From the playful bimbo’s face through the ultravoluptuous curves to the tiny delicate feet, the vision was horrible, perverse….but sexy as hell. It exaggerated the very features she’d tried so hard – through dress, exercise and diet, posture – to conceal….but celebrated them, too. Her conscious mind recoiled at the image, but she couldn’t deny that far back in the attic of her brain, she felt a tingle of excitement in the notion of men bidding for her, competing with each other over this ideal female.

With an effort of will, the girl closed her eyes against her future. She was no goddess. She was a wide-hipped girl from the suburbs. She was good at math, and swimming, and wanted to be a schoolteacher. This “doctor” and his associates might cut and inject her, but she was still herself. At least for a little longer.

“Don’t you want to see the menu of mods available for you? So far the program is only displaying the few treatments our staff has already begun for you. It can also simulate the variety of detail treatments that your buyer might specify. Or would you rather be surprised?” The girl opened her moist brown eyes again to take in her possible futures. One thing she did not want was to be surprised by whatever further changes were performed upon her body.

“OK, I have no idea where you might be vended, so I’ll just start a slide show of the various treatments that might be selected. That should keep you entertained while I leave you alone here with your nurse for a bit. Twelve is efficient enough in her duties, but not very good company. I’ll be back again later to check on you.”

He turned to the trim, silent nurse. “Nurse, all the subject’s requirements are on the chart. After cleaning her up she’s due for a topical breast treatment, and it’s time for the basic wiring setup. I should be back before you’re finished.” After tapping some keys on the computer terminal he left the room, humming a cheerful tune.

While the nurse busied herself with some preparations, the captive girl watched as the image on the monitor zoomed to a closeup of her feet which were pointed down, nearly in line with her lower legs. She could see now why they looked so small: there were only four toes – the big toe and three of the smaller ones – and the foot itself had been narrowed proportionately. It was very neat work and no scars were visible, at least in the computer image. She wondered what her own poor, complaining feet looked like now, inside their casts or splints or whatever it was that held them rigid, outside her restricted field of vision.

As the girl watched with dreadful fascination, the feet on the monitor oozed into a completely new shape, the toes merging into a single heavy pad, like a hoof. Then the toes divided again, but folded underneath while the feet shrank into misshapen clubs – like those of a Chinese concubine, bound from youth. Suddenly the feet disappeared completely, leaving her calves abbreviated at neat padded stumps. Next, steel hardware faded into view at the stumps, connectors perhaps that might be used to mount some kind of prosthetics to the ends of her legs. Finally the delicate, four-toed feet that belonged to some fetishized ballerina faded back into view. The camera zoomed out and panned up, so that her legs became visible from thigh tops to toes.

Gasping through her mesh-covered breathing port, the rubberized nurse approached the table carrying a small plastic tub. She lifted a wet sponge from it with her gloved hand, and began bathing the bound girl from head to toe. She rubbed briskly and purposefully, but not roughly, and the warm cleansing solution relaxed the captive victim as it wiped away sweat and spatter that had accumulated during the previous session. When the nurse was done she toweled the girl thoroughly, then draped her again with a blue shoulder-to-knee blanket.

Clicking smoothly back and forth across the room in what the prisoner visualized as very high heels, the nurse retrieved a jar from a cabinet on the wall and stood over the her charge’s head. The weird masked face appeared upside down to the girl as the bulbous mirrored “eyes” looked down on her. The nurse reached into the jar and brought out dabs of white lotion, which she massaged firmly into the captive’s face.

I always wanted to go to one of those fancy spas, the girl thought with bitter irony.

She missed long stretches of the slide show while the nurse tended her, but glimpsed some strange images in moments when the black rubber hands didn’t block her view. Apparently amputation of her legs at the knee, or even right under her butt, were possibilities that she faced. She saw her hips expanded to hippopotamus size, and her waist reduced to a few inches in diameter.

At one point the nipples on her enormous jugs stretched and thickened until she had the teats of a milk cow. Then, impossibly, each thumb-sized teat split into four and her boobies became udders. When the nipples shrank again they didn’t stop at a normal size but retracted into her boobs, leaving holes that stretched vertically and grew flabby lips at their sides. Instead of nipples each of her giant boobs now featured a little bald pussy. She watched all this detachedly – it was impossible to believe these bizarre abominations might actually be inflicted upon her.

After completing the facial the nurse drew the blanket down off the girl’s breasts, and began applying to them a lotion from another jar that she’d taken from the wall cabinet. This treatment created a sensation of warmth, like a milder form of a heating cream that the girl had applied once to a sprained ankle. As the nurse slowly massaged the warming lotion into her boobies, the girl began to feel something like pleasure, and became deeply relaxed……..

“Gaaahh!” She snapped suddenly awake again as sharp pain from her boobs penetrated the fog of drugs and fatigue. The nurse was still standing over her, the protruding mirrored “eyes” looking down into her face, but had stopped the massage and was pinching and twisting her nipples – hard. The restrained prisoner fluttered her lashes to prove she was awake – after a moment the nurse relaxed her grip, then resumed rubbing the warming cream into the flesh of her firm boobs.

The girl understood that she was not to sleep. The doctor had promised a break after the botox masking procedure, and he had kept his promise – for himself.

Why won’t they just let me sleep? the exhausted captive thought as her eyes filled again with tears. Then she remembered: sleep deprivation is a tool for interrogation. They were trying to wear her down, probably brainwash her. How could she fight it? She tried to fill her mind with thoughts of happy times she’d spent with family and friends. But in this strange place those memories seemed distant and difficult to call forth with any vividness, as though her captivity had already lasted four years instead of a little over four days.

She tried harder, concentrating on the pleasant memory of the previous Summer’s family vacation. The nurse had stepped away from the table to work with some equipment, and the girl risked closing her eyes to focus on recalling that happy time. She remembered the cozy little cabin in the mountains, walking through green meadows, singing songs around a fire, watching meteors flash across the starry black sky. She could almost feel the pine-scented breeze in her hair.

Then, as she visualized walking along a sunny creek-side trail she felt pain in her feet. She realized the people around her in this daydream – or had she fallen asleep again? – her mother, her younger brother, his friend who’d come along, were looking at her strangely.

She felt self-conscious, and reached up to touch her face. It felt stiff and numb. She looked down at herself, and she was naked. Her boobies were huge, projecting in front of her so that she couldn’t see her toes. She tried to cover herself, but her hands stopped working and fell useless at her sides. The boys were pointing and laughing at her. She looked to her mother for pity and understanding, but was met with a look of utter revulsion…

Back in the little white room the girl felt rubber fingers on her nipple, and her eyes sprang open. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, and she sobbed.

Could she ever go back? Even if she escaped, or was rescued, she would be a freak. No one could ever look at her the same way again. The girl’s pious mother had warned that her hunger for the attention and approval of boys would lead her into a life of sin. It seemed that mother had been right, even if she’d never imagined the depths of degradation to which her little girl might be drawn.

The overhead image was zoomed in on her face, her dim-witted new doll’s face, and suddenly the girl saw in it a true reflection of her lack of wisdom, her weak character. Wondering what it was she’d done, specifically, that had led her to this plight, she returned her attention to the screen with a combination of dread, morbid curiosity, and resignation. She watched as her thick, curly, reddish-brown hair faded away to reveal a smooth bald scalp, then returned again. Her brown eyes grew slowly until they were huge and glassy, like a Japanese cartoon. When they shrank again, they kept narrowing until they disappeared completely, and the eyelids flattened out as though stretched over empty sockets.

Her nose erupted like Pinocchio’s – if Pinocchio had a ten-inch dildo for a nose – and despite her condition the girl had to laugh at the ridiculous sight. Then she recalled her doctor had said that some of his clients were women. She imagined being buried to the eyeballs in funky female pubic hair, and the dildo-nose didn’t seem funny anymore. Her nose shrank again and morphed through many sizes and shapes, before receding back into her skull to leave a puffy bald pussy in its place, complete with a little clitoris right between her eyes.

She wondered how long it would take for her to go insane.


The nurse was pasting the last of a half-dozen small wired pads around the girl’s forehead when the door swung open with a bang and her developer returned.

“OK, how are we doing? I see Twelve has done a thorough job with your skin treatments. Now let’s get a look at those feet.”

He snapped on fresh gloves and touched his subject’s pained toes. On the ceiling monitor the lips of her computer-generated twin were inflating into pink bananas, but she focused her attention on the doctor’s unseen explorations. He began peeling tape and dressings from her feet, and the girl was surprised to gather from the touch of his fingers on her bare skin that her feet were apparently not casted or otherwise bound.

“Nurse, lets get her cleaned up here.” The attendant began swabbing the feet with something that stung. At the tips of her toes and along the outsides of her feet the gentle dabs brought sparks of fresh hot pain.

“You’re coming along very well here. No more weeping from the wounds and the swelling is going down nicely. Nurse, get her wired for the electrostimulator.” He stood and returned his attention to the girl. “That will feel a little funny – people say it’s like something crawling on your skin. But electrostim greatly accelerates the healing of bone and connective tissues, so it’ll help you get back on your feet much more quickly.” Doctor and nurse worked together to paste sticky pads to the girl’s feet, and she heard the snap of plugs being fitted into electronic sockets.

“I see the slide show has ended. So our timing is perfect, it’s time to flip you.” Without warning he pulled a pair of mechanical catches below the table, and lifted it at the head end. The well-balanced apparatus rotated easily, and the girl bound within spun 160 degrees forward until she was looking down toward the floor, her head still slightly above her feet. The rigid bands that had held her firmly to the table now carried her weight. There were enough of them, adequately padded and strategically located, so that the load was distributed and her restraint remained reasonably comfortable. Her long hair had been bound behind her neck, but the wires from the pads the nurse had stuck around her forehead now dangled to either side of her face. The slim, silent nurse quickly checked each of the supporting bands, pads and connectors, making adjustments here and there to be certain all was in order.

“We need to change your position at intervals so you don’t get bedsores, or other complications that come from being held too long in one position. Your bed here is designed to facilitate this, so we can keep you here pretty much indefinitely, or at least as long as we need to during your physical recovery and training. Now, one more little thing, and we’ll leave you to rest.”

“Nurse, do you have the MES ready? 200 CC each? Good.” Staring nearly at the floor now, the girl’s ability to see what happened around her was even more restricted. The doctor’s shiny leather shoes appeared next to her. The hem of his white coat dipped, telling her he was bending to examine her right side. She felt some fumbling at a sore point she’d sensed at the front of her right armpit, then a sensation of growing tightness and weight in her breast. He was inflating her with the liquid plastic.

“We like to do these injections with the subject in the prone position because that allows more even tension across the skin, and the fewest stretch marks.” He disconnected what the girl imagined to be a large syringe and moved to her left side. “These injections are 200 CC each. As your breasts expand we’ll increase the size of each injection. The rubdown Twelve gave your titties earlier – did you enjoy that? – that was a compound we’ve developed which encourages the growth of new skin. It’s all part of our integrated expansion technique, which is the most advanced in the world. There,” he concluded, disconnecting the second syringe. Her boobs felt taut and heavy.

“Mix them up for her, Twelve.” The girl saw an pair of black, high-heeled, calf-high boots enter her field of view. The needle-like heels must have been 6 inches tall, and the boot tops were bound with rows of tight-buckled straps. The trim legs that rose out of the boots were clad in baggy, shiny latex.

The nurse stood directly above her head and bent over her, so that the white outer uniform brushed her subject’s head. She reached forward and under the girl’s chest, cupped a hanging tit in each gloved hand and shook them gently, allowing the sensitive skin to bump and slide within her clawed fingers. Then she kneaded the tight, plump boobs, lightly but taking care to work the entire surface. None of this treatment was painful, but the strapped girl blushed at the violation, at her utter helplessness to defend the dignity of her own body. Finally the nurse finished the massage and stepped back.

“I’m going to turn the electrostim on now.” A switch was flipped, and the suspended girl felt the promised creepy-crawlies all over her feet and ankles. “The sensors on your head monitor your brain activity, information that we’ll use in many ways throughout your training. Tonight their only purpose is to monitor your sleep, and make sure you’re properly prepared to begin your real training the next time I see you.”

“We’ve had a very productive first session! You probably won’t sleep very well, but try not to think too hard about all that’s happened, and get some rest. You still have a lot of healing to do.”

The room lights dimmed until the girl could barely see the white tile floor, a few feet from her face. Two sets of footsteps clicked and clacked away from the girl, until they were cut off by the bang of the closing door. It was quiet, and nearly dark.

Despite her pain and distress, the first thing the girl thought of was sleep. She had begun the day already worn down by her recent surgeries, and the emotional shocks and physical trials she’d endured had tapped her last reserves of energy. She was ashamed at how she’d surrendered to the demands of her captor, at how close she’d already come to giving up hope for escape or rescue. But she had just been too tired to resist. If she could manage even a few hours of sleep, maybe she could be stronger tomorrow. She did not like the sound of “training,” but she pushed fears of the future out of her mind as she closed her eyes.

Bound upside down in this mad scientist’s laboratory, in pain from shoulder to toe, perforated with piercing and IVs and injection ports and feeling as though she wore socks stuffed with bugs, the girl fell asleep almost immediately.



A loud, grating sound filled the girl’s head, and the room lights flashed. She awoke slowly, stunned and sluggish. What happened? It was dark again. She closed her eyes and drifted off once more…


Again the flashing lights and penetrating sound. They weren’t going to let her sleep! But he’d promised! He’d told her she should! Maybe it was just some kind of electrical short……..


“No, you haf to let meh thleep! He thed ah could thleep!” The immobilized girl cried out to the empty room, and wept, her tears making little splatters on the tile floor.

In fact her developer was allowing her to sleep. She did need rest to speed her healing, and he did not want to delay her recovery any more than necessary. Time is money after all, in the production of pleasure companions as in any venture.

But rapid-eye movement sleep was another matter. REM is the stage of sleep during which dreams occur, memories are organized, and most of the “re-charging” of the mind that’s associated with restful nights occurs. The developer had set the brainwave monitor and room systems to watch for the telltale patterns of REM, and awaken the girl when they were detected.  When her next session began his subject would have recovered somewhat physically, while remaining nearly as exhausted mentally as she had been at the start of the rest period. She would be well prepared for the next steps in her transformation.




Chapter 5 – Making a Stand

The overhead lights flickered back to life again, accompanied this time by the bang of the swinging door and the click of heels. A long string of drool trailed from the girl’s slack lower lip toward a puddle of saliva and tears on the floor. Wordlessly, the nurse bent and mopped up the mess. When the floor was spotlessly clean again she set a plastic tub below the captive’s downturned face. A check of the bands, a change of the IV bag, and the tall black boots moved away from the inverted table. Silently, the urine valve opened and the girl moaned quietly with relief. The nurse’s tall heels clicked out the door, and the lights dimmed again.

The night dragged on – if night in fact it was. The naked, inverted prisoner realized she had no way of judging the time from inside her sterile white cell. Eight hours or eighty, her resting time seemed to drag on forever, punctuated by the forced awakenings and more brief visits from the nurse.

At first it seemed she was awakened every few minutes by the lights and loud buzz.  But soon her body learned what depth of sleep was allowed it and she dozed lightly for longer stretches, at times half aware of herself cruising just below the surface of wakefulness. After a while her body felt saturated with sleep, though her brain was still dull and it took an effort to focus her thoughts. When she could no longer sleep and had tired of weeping, she passed tedious hours practicing how to form words with her newly-impaired lips.

The dosage of drugs administered to her had been reduced, which combined with the rest left the girl feeling much stronger physically. The tranquilizers had been cut off completely, and fear weighed on her more heavily than during her first session with the developer. But she was angry, too, both at what had been done to her and at herself for her weakness. Despite the lingering mental fatigue she was determined to resist the mad “doctor,” and the process being methodically applied to her. She looked forward to his return – she had been practicing some choice words for her doctor and was eager to tell him what she thought of him and his clinic.

Once again the rapid clicking footsteps of the spike-heeled nurse entered the room. The electrostimulator was shut down, and the swarms of imaginary ants disappeared from the girl’s feet. Again she felt the silent wave of relief that accompanied the release of urine from her plugged bladder. After fumbling for a moment with some tools the nurse approached her right side. The captive subject felt rubber fingers groping for the injection port at her armpit, and a soft click as the syringe was connected.

“Don’t do dat! Please, don’t help dem!”

The nurse never hesitated, and as she slowly pressed the plunger the girl felt tightness build again in her swelling breast, which had relaxed somewhat during the resting time. She sighed, having expected her plea would go unanswered. She was sure the masked nurse was a brainwashed slave of the clinic, and could not blame her for what she did. As the injection was repeated at her left side, she sensed the new weight in her growing boobs and wondered how large they were now. Prevented by the restraints from tilting her head downwards, she could only guess. But when the nurse reached under her to agitate their liquid plastic filling, the girl could tell that they had already grown to be larger than comfortable handfuls.

The nurse threw levers at the back of the table and flipped the girl backwards till she was staring up again, into the lights and the now darkened video screen. “Twelve” stood over her and again massaged the warming skin-growth lotion into her breasts. It was a strange sensation, the greased rubber fingers gliding over nerve-rich skin that was stretched tight over the plastic-filled bubbles. The girl felt a tingle of pleasure as the fingers worked around her nipples, stirring guilt at first, but then she surrendered to it. The nurse was not her enemy – why not take a break from this nightmare and enjoy a moment? Her lids grew heavy but she remembered not to close her eyes.

When the thorough breast massage was complete the nurse began releasing the rigid, padded bands that restrained the girl, and had recently supported her weight. One at a time, she opened the bands, kneaded the flesh firmly at each point where it had been compressed, and massaged the skin with lotion before replacing the restraint and checking it for security. Never was more than one of the many bands that held her released, so the girl didn’t even consider trying to escape. As the nurse worked along the several bands that constrained her arms, the girl became aware that the faintest sensations were returning to her upper limbs, though they remained paralyzed. The last band to be released was the one that crossed the girl’s forehead. The nurse rested two rubber-clad fingers lightly on her subject’s eyelids while she released the headband, used her free hand to massage the skin under the strap with lotion, and then replaced the restraint.

Again the catches were flipped and the table raised at the head, stopping this time when the captive leaned a few degrees back from upright. The girl had her best view yet of her cell, and hungry eyes scanned about taking in various cabinets, the rolling cart and stool, some button-studded panels on the wall. There was nothing to indicate where she might be, other than a generic hospital room. No signs written in a foreign language, no window, no clock that she could see.

The nurse approached her with a wet sponge and moistened the girl’s involuntary, doll-like smile. It felt wonderful! Then she brought a lidded plastic cup with a flexible straw, and presented it to her charge’s lips.

At first the girl hesitated, and stared into the nurse’s bulbous silver eyes doubtfully. But why, after going to all this trouble, would they poison her? Her lips reached forward and grasped the straw. She took a little sip – it was fresh, cool water, her first real drink in days, and the girl knew she’d never tasted anything better. Her lips clamped tight around the straw, and she eagerly sucked down the entire cup, soaking her parched mouth and throat.

The nurse set down the cup and returned with a strange plastic device. From a curved plate about the size of a woman’s palm, a hollow-tipped cone projected. Behind the plate the nurse grasped a round bulb; white ribbons hung from either side of the plate. The girl only got a quick look at the device before the nurse touched the tip of the cone to her lips.

Again she hesitated, her mouth closed tight. The nurse squeezed the bulb, and a dollop of paste oozed from the cone onto the girl’s lips. She sampled it carefully with her tongue. It was thick, smooth, and a little salty. Fine cuisine it was not, but there was nothing foul about it. She swallowed the dab of paste and the nurse squeezed a larger blob between her lips. The girl rolled the paste around her mouth – it was so wonderful to eat something, anything, after how many days taking all her nourishment via the IV. As the second dollop slid down her throat, her stomach grumbled and her dormant hunger awakened with a vengeance. She opened her jaws a little wider and sucked on the tip of the cone, begging for more of the salty paste.

The nurse squeezed the bulb again lightly, sending a small blob into the eager mouth, then pushed the tip of the cone between her subject’s teeth. Surprised, the girl tried to bite down but the cone was hard and slippery, and once the hollow point had passed her teeth there was little she could do to prevent its entry. The nurse leaned into it, and the penetrating cone spread the girl’s jaws wider until her front teeth clicked into grooves at its base and the curved plate touched her lips. The nurse held the device in place while she used the white straps to secure it to either side of the headrest. When she stepped back, the girl groped with her tongue for some purchase, tried to shake her head or do anything to force this new violator out of her mouth. She could not; she was securely gagged.

The door banged open and two sets of footsteps entered. One belonged to her “doctor.”

“Good morning! Have a good night? You’re looking very well.”

“Ukk ooh!” was all the girl could force past the plastic feeding gag, a tiny scrap of the elaborate curses she’d practiced so carefully for this reunion.

“That’s not very nice, after all the care and expense we’ve taken with you?” Her doctor really looked disappointed.

“The facial treatments, the bathing, everything we can do to keep you healthy and comfortable. I’d hoped you’d be happy to be eating again. That feeder will remain connected for a while so you can take your ration at your own pace. Just in little squirts – you still have to get used to swallowing without a gag reflex.” The nurse was replacing the IV bag on the metal stand with another clear bag, this one filled with the brownish-gray paste. A finger’s-width tube dangled from the bag; she snapped the free end to the back of the feeder and squeezed the bulb a few times to draw the pureed food into the tube.

Still angry, but also terribly hungry, the girl could not resist testing the connection. A firm suction applied to the gag delivered another dollop of the paste, now directly to the back of her mouth where she was forced to swallow it immediately. Another pull, another swallow. The developer watched as she pulsed her cheeks like a baby sucking slowly on a giant pacifier, and smiled again.

“Good! Now let me introduce you to another member of your development team.” He beckoned and the set of footsteps that had entered beside his own thumped into view. They belonged to a huge, thick-bodied female, clad in baggy green “scrubs” that draped awkwardly over her lumpy torso. This new member of the “team” was much taller and broader than the nurse, larger even than the developer who the girl could see now was not a big man. The barrel-shaped, remarkably unfeminine body was topped with a puffy round face, and short-cropped, dirty blonde hair.

“This is Ruta, your physical therapist. It’s her job to maintain and improve your flexibility while you’re confined here, and eventually when you’re ready she’ll train you in things like how to walk properly on your pretty new feet, and how to make the best use of your arms. You’re going to cooperate with her, aren’t you?”

The girl had stopped sucking on the gag and now stared over it at the developer, her nostrils flaring as she breathed deeply. She was filled with fear but struggled to muster her resolve. “Go do ell, oo….ahtahd!”

The developer stepped close, and spoke quietly. “Now, don’t tell me you’re going to make another silly scene. Remember how uncomfortable that was for you the last time? Do you really want to go down that road again?” The girl just puffed at him, holding her stare. In her mind she scowled, forgetting that her face no longer obeyed such commands.

“Or would you rather see a new trick?” The doctor reached toward her face with both hands. With one he pushed the curved plastic plate firmly against her lips, the other pinched her nostrils. His victim’s eyes widened as she realized her air was cut off.

“You see how simple a thing it is? If you prove to be stubborn and untrainable, it’s such a small matter to dispose of you. What a waste that would be, though, of your natural gifts. Really, you have so many of the qualities that make a fine pleasure companion. I doubt there’s a career for which you’re better suited. Won’t you reconsider?” He released his grip on the flushing captive’s nose, and she snorted the air. He gave her a few seconds to reflect.


She stared at him again. Somewhere a last reservoir of adrenaline was tapped, anger overcame fear, and an unfamiliar courage flowed within her.

“Ukk ooh!”

The developer closed her airways again.

“Such a silly girl. What do you think, that you can escape? How do you dream of managing that? Or that you can hold out until you’re rescued? I’d forget about that, too. When you were recruited our agents emptied your bank account, stole some of your favorite clothes and planted evidence on your computer that you were thinking about dropping out, moving to California. Your credit card was used to purchase a plane ticket, and a few meals in LA. People may be looking for you, but thousands of miles from where you actually are. In a few months you’ll be written off as just another of the thousands of pretty, unhappy young women who fall through the cracks.”

The girl was beet red before the developer let her take a few deep breaths, her chest straining against the bands that crossed it. Tears flowed from her now-closed eyes and rolled down her flushed cheeks.

They were too organized, she thought, too ruthless. It was hopeless. She hoped he would smother her now, and end this nightmare.

Obligingly, the developer clamped her nose again. His face was inches from hers as he spoke quietly and calmly. “It’s silly to think you can resist us. This is our business, which we’ve managed successfully for many years. Many women stronger and smarter than you have challenged us, and we’ve always won. Always, one way or another. Have you wondered how Nurse Twelve came to be as she is? Listen to her story.” He loosened his grip and allowed his writhing subject two more snorting breaths – he wanted her awake to hear the tale.

“Twelve was once a beautiful cosmetics model, no one famous you’d be likely to recognize but very beautiful, and she caught the eye of one of our wealthy clients. He contracted with us to recruit and convert her into a pleasure companion for himself. Those types of jobs, where the subject is selected purely for physical traits rather than trainability, are always risky. Well, Twelve turned out to be a real hellcat. She resisted at every opportunity, and even managed to injure one of our attendants.”

Blue veins were popping out of the girl’s throat and forehead. Her torturer allowed her a bit more air, his experienced hands holding her at a level of desperate, heightened consciousness.

“But what did all that struggle bring her? Not freedom, only a lot of pain and suffering she could have easily avoided. By resisting one of her cosmetic procedures Twelve caused her own face to be disfigured. The client lost interest in her, and bought out of the contract. We tried some radical new treatments, hoping to restore her face to marketable condition. We learned a lot from those experiments, but unfortunately for Twelve the new treatments were proven to be… not yet perfected. But she continued to fight! Finally we turned her over to our neurologist. After some poking around he was able to make physical changes to her brain that have rendered her, if not marketable, at least useful. She’s one of our few failures – if you consider such an efficient assistant a failure.”

The girl was turning purple, her eyes rolling back in her head as her writhing weakened.

“You see, my dear, there are many possibilities besides cooperation, and death.” The developer released his grip and life-saving air rushed into his subject’s lungs. He let her breathe deeply for a while.

When he was sure she was fully alert he touched the tip of her nose, lightly, and stared into her flushed, tear-stained, inappropriately cheerful face.

“There are many possibilities, but only one choice, for you: cooperation, and acceptance of the role that’s been assigned you. If you reject that, then all the other choices are ours.” He paused and stepped back, wiping his fingers with a towel. “Most pleasure companions find their new role tolerable, at least compared to the other possibilities, and more than a few find it enjoyable and satisfying. So what will it be for you?”

The gagged captive’s nostrils still flared with the effort to make up for lost breaths. She had been ready to die rather than go along with the doctor’s depraved intentions for her. But she looked at the slim, silent nurse, standing robotically erect in her latex uniform and gasping through the breathing port in her horrible mask, and knew there were fates worse than death. Unable to voice her submission, the girl raised her red-rimmed eyes to the meet the developer’s, then slowly lowered them again.

He watched her carefully for a while before accepting her capitulation. “Good! Very good! All girls have foolish ideas sometimes but I think you’re going to turn out just fine. I’ll leave you with Ruta, then. Cooperate with her, and you’ll find she gives an excellent massage.”

The developer turned to the heavyset, beady-eyed therapist. “I don’t think she’ll give you any trouble. Just the legs for now. The arms have to stay immobilized a while longer and she still has some healing to do through the midsection. OK?”

“Da!” the big, crew-cut woman said sharply. “Just legs. I start easy with pretty girl.”

“Yes, start easy. You’ll have plenty of time with her.” He began to leave, then stopped at the door and turned to the masked, programmed nurse. “Twelve, when Ruta is finished check the chart and do what needs to be done. Bye for now.” He directed the last farewell toward his subject and exited with a bang.

The brutish therapist walked slowly to stand close in front of the captive, who still stared downwards in despair. A heavy, thick-fingered hand brushed the bound girl’s brow, and her eyes swiveled up to meet the dough-faced woman’s gaze. The prisoner was suspended upright with her downward-pointing toes some inches above the floor, but the green-clad, sneaker-shod giant still looked slightly down at her.

“Yesss, pretty girl for sure. You no make trouble, no problem for you. My job not to hurt you, therapy is good for body. But if you make trouble, like for doctor…” Vise-like fingers suddenly crushed the captive’s nipple, bringing a whine of pain from behind the gag.

“If you make trouble, maybe you no enjoy therapy so much. Eh?”

Ruta smiled, and gently stroked her subject’s brow. She seemed to wait for a reply, but bound and gagged the girl could neither nod nor answer. She just stared, wide eyed, as fresh fears of unspeakable new violations flooded her and washed away the previous terrors.

“Da! We begin.” The big, ugly woman said suddenly as she moved around the elevated table, popped its catches and laid the girl down flat again.

“First time we go easy, like doctor say. If I push too hard, you say. Well, you gagged, but make noise. But don’t be chicken! We have to push a little or it’s no good. No pain no gain, you know.” The therapist laid a bear’s paw firmly on the girl’s right ankle, just above the zone of pain that encompassed her feet. She unplugged the electrostim wires, undid the many catches and flipped open the bands that restrained the leg.

When it was free she stroked the shapely limb gently with one hand, lingering over the well-toned quads and calves, while the other held the ankle firmly to the table.

“Verrry nice, strong girl. I like strong girl. So many here like little sticks, I worry to break. You look more healthy woman.” She clapped the stroking hand down above the knee and raised the leg toward the ceiling, pushing forward until it pointed straight up at the lights and the girl attached to it groaned against the tightness of her hamstring. Ruta stopped pushing but held the leg in position.

“Yes, you very tight. Lay too long here. But we stretch you out.”

While the therapist held the leg in the stretched position the girl had her first chance to see her foot. Most of it was covered in tape and gauze, white stained with antiseptic. The skin she could see peaking through the dressings was an angry, dark-mottled yellow, like a nasty bruise. There was no splint. So why couldn’t she flex her ankles, beyond a little wiggle? What had the doctor meant by “reinforced?”

“You foot hurt now, eh? Not for long. Soon feel better, and very pretty. Then I teach you walk on toes, like dancer. Verrry elegant, high-class. Your man like.”

After holding the leg in position for a minute Ruta allowed it to fall a ways, then raised it again to its maximum. Finally she laid it back on the table, only to flex it and slowly push the knee up toward her subject’s chest.

“Nice bosoms they make for you! Doctor here very good, they make pretty girl extra-special. You see!”

For some minutes the powerful woman manipulated the girl’s leg, stretching the hip and knee to their limits in all directions, heeding her subject’s complaints so as not to go too far. Ruta’s appearance and manner had at first filled the restrained girl with new fears – and chased the despair of her surrender from her mind. But as the stretching progressed the dumpy amazon’s friendly chatter, surprisingly gentle touch, and skilled professionalism put her subject at ease.

Soon she was not just tolerating the stretching, but fully cooperating with it. One of the lesser worries that had troubled her, while she hung awake in her restraints sometime late in her long “night,” was that if the clinic indeed kept her strapped to the table “indefinitely” she would lose her hard-earned muscle tone and flexibility. The therapy, like the gentle attention the nurse had paid earlier to her skin, comforted the girl with its reminder that she was valuable property.

When Ruta had finished both legs and refastened their restraints, she stood back with her hands on her hips.

“Good! When you fight with doctor I think you bad girl, trouble maker. But you no just pretty, you good girl! I take care of you every day from now. Tomorrow we push a little more, maybe, but we go slow. We have time. When I finish you be girl of rubber! Bye now, be good!” She waved a meaty paw as she thumped out the door.

The girl lay dazed by the cascade of trials and terrors she had faced in just the last hour. The terrifying memories were already dim, of being smothered nearly to death by a pair of pinching fingers, of the shame of her surrender to the sadistic developer. Had all that happened thirty minutes ago? Twenty? She tried to remember why she had resisted in the first place. It had been foolish….silly. There was no hope of rescue or escape. She had no choice but to accept her fate.

She thought of her new job title: “Custom Pleasure Companion.” She recalled the grotesque premonition of oral slavery that she’d had during the gag-reflex test. She thought of the weird, unnatural modifications she’d seen on the video screen, any of which might be in store for her. Again she thought she should be horrified, repulsed. But it was too much for her overtaxed mind – she couldn’t organize the flood of frightening visions and summon the proper reaction.

Soon she gave up the useless effort, relaxed within her bonds and stared up at the ceiling. Her smiling mouth sucked mindlessly on the feeder gag. She was grateful for the salty paste, and for the feeling of fresh blood moving in her legs.




Chapter 6 – Training

The girl’s dazed reverie was broken by the nurse, who stepped forward into view and squeezed the bulb on the feeder gag, dropping the last few squirts of pureed food into her charge’s vulnerable gullet. Lunchtime was over.

With the bag of paste emptied, the nurse twisted the bulb sharply and withdrew the cone-shaped feeder gag from her subject’s mouth. The plastic faceplate remained, and a short cylinder projected from it into the girl’s mouth so that her teeth remained propped wide apart. Quickly the nurse returned with another plastic prod, this one studded with sensors and trailing an electronic cable instead of a feeding tube. The girl was helpless to resist its insertion between her spread jaws, and the nurse secured it to the faceplate with a quick twist. The prod did not reach quite to the back of the girl’s mouth, and left room to maneuver her tongue.

The nurse moved out of view toward the foot of the table. The girl felt her legs spreading wider as the articulated table silently forced them further apart. There was a release of pressure in her rectum, and the waste tube slipped out of her. But in a moment another device poked at her anus, which continued to gape slightly after its long violation. The new intruder was cool, smooth, and larger than the waste tube, but had been well greased with lubricating gel and slid easily into her. The girl gasped as its rounded tip pressed into her bowel. The insertion was not really painful, but she had never taken anything other than the skinny enema tube in her butt and it was strange to be so filled back there. The nurse fiddled with some hardware at the base of the prod, and when she stepped away the girl found it was held securely within her.

Next she felt a similar device nosing between her lower lips and at the entrance to her snug vagina. She wasn’t a virgin, but neither had her female passage entertained many visitors. She preferred to satisfy her boyfriends with her mouth, and only a choice few had won access to her most private place. She was tight, and now as she lay naked under the floodlights in this frightening place, bone dry. But the nurse was insistent and slowly worked the greased, slightly flexible prod into her.

The girl whimpered as it entered, at the pain and the violation. Finally it was in place and like its anal twin fixed so that it was held firmly inside her.

The restrained, abused, and now thoroughly plugged victim was shocked and confused. By now she had resigned herself to being raped, eventually. But to be penetrated so easily, clinically, and simultaneously in three orifices had taken her by surprise.

Suddenly she felt rubber fingers groping her clitoris. The nurse flicked and rubbed it as her victim’s eyes widened. But as the uninvited stimulation continued her body responded reflexively. She felt nerves tingle through her abdomen and along her inner thigh, and could tell her little clitty was swelling. Suddenly the nurse grasped it firmly between two fingers of one hand – eliciting a grunt of pain from her subject – then gingerly fixed the jaws of a blunt-toothed clamp around the base of the bud. It was uncomfortable but not really painful, and it trapped the clitoris securely even after its swelling ebbed. The clamp was fixed in position; the girl guessed it was mounted to the top of the vaginal dildo.

The nurse appeared next at her side, and quickly teased one of her nipples to attention as easily as she had the clitoris. When it stood sufficiently erect for her purposes she clipped a small device to it. A wire hung from the unseen gizmo, brushing the girl’s ribs. The nurse moved around and repeated the attachment at her other breast, then moved off toward the door.

The lights dimmed and there was a pop of static on the video monitor above the girl’s head. White letters displayed “Generic Companion Training 3.2,” followed by a message that was both spelled out on the screen and voiced over the monitor’s speakers: “This training program requires your strict attention. Follow instructions and remain focused on the screen at all times, and you can avoid punishment.”

The monitor was dark and silent for a moment, then voiced and displayed in large letters, simply: “SUCK.”

Still stunned by the latest turn of events, the girl reacted with puzzlement. What the hell were they talking about?

“SUCK,” the program repeated.

This was stupid. Did they expect her to suck on a plastic knob…

“Aaaaaaah!” Stinging sparks briefly zapped her nipples and clitoris.

“Follow instructions and you can avoid punishment,” the voice intoned. Then the display and voice together, again: “SUCK.”

Shocked and frightened, the girl applied suction to the prod in her mouth. When the pressure reached a certain point, it made a soft clicking sound.

“SQUEEZE your cunt,” the voice ordered, the screen displaying only the first word of the command.

What? How could she, she couldn’t…


She tried, tightening the muscles of her abdomen, her mind groping along little-used nerves…

“Aaaaaaaaagggh!” A longer burst of pain this time.

“Follow instructions and you can avoid punishment. SQUEEZE.”

The girl found the right button to push in her brain, and felt herself clamping down on the vaginal dildo. It was so unfamiliar: she’d always thought of such contractions as something that happened, rather than something she consciously did.


What….not enough pressure. She bore down harder on the plastic invader, until she felt another click vibrate through her sensitive tissues.

“CLENCH your ass.” This one she got on the first try.


Round and round it went. At first several seconds passed between each command, but with each cycle the pace that was demanded of her slowly increased. Squeezing her pussy was always the hardest part – her muscles there were firm and healthy, but undisciplined.

As the girl struggled to meet the demands of the program she felt a low hum building in her sensitive buds. The clamps that held her nipples and clitoris had begun vibrating. There was a stirring in her loins, too: the previously inert dildo lodged in her pussy had come to life with vibrations, and a slow stroking motion. The distraction threw her off the pace – she could not make her pussy respond in time to meet the demands of the program, earning herself more pain.


“Obedience may be rewarded with pleasure. Failure to follow instructions will be punished. SUCK.”

Again the cycle began, slowly at first, then accelerating. As she met the program’s demands the buzzing and slow reaming of her pussy resumed. She really wished they wouldn’t. It was impossible to think of any of this torture as sexy or exciting. She was just trying to keep up, trying to prevent more electric shocks to her most sensitive places. She didn’t need the distraction.

The pace had built to about one command every two seconds when the rotation suddenly shifted from the orderly “SUCK… SQUEEZE… CLENCH” to a random pattern. The girl was taken by surprise and SQUEEZED when she’d been ordered to CLENCH. A long pulse of electricity pulsed through her tender flesh, forcing a groan of pain past the oral prod.

“Disobedience will be severely punished. Maintain strict attention at all times and follow instructions and you can avoid punishment. SUCK.”

The girl wept as she complied, beginning the cycle yet again. She watched the screen intently now, waiting for the changes of direction, through eyes blurred by tears. The pace of commands quickened while the buzzing and grinding slowly intensified…

The training session seemed to go on forever, ending only when she was too fatigued to continue. Her inexperienced pussy gave out first, earning her repeated shocks that grew longer and more intense with each failure to obey.

Finally the computer program recognized her exhaustion. “Training Program terminated – Incomplete. Subject Performance: Poor. Recommendation: hydration and rest. Recommendation: repeat this program until performance satisfactory, before advancing to next level. Shutdown.”

The screen went blank, it’s message filling the abused captive with despair.

She wept quietly while the nurse removed the clamps, dildos, and oral prod, and replaced the waste and feeding tubes. A fresh feeding bag was hung on the metal stand, this one filled with a watery formula as thin as melted ice cream, if not as sweet. A switch was flipped and the creepy-crawlies returned to her feet. The room dimmed, and the nurse’s footsteps clicked away down the hall.


Bzzzzzzt! The room lights flashed, and the exhausted girl awakened groggily. She stared up into the lights for a moment, trying to remember where she was and why she was there, before the room darkened again.


The passage of time became a blur. The girl’s waking hours were filled now with training: almost every moment that Ruta was not there to stretch her, and the nurse was not inflating her boobs, massaging her with lotions, or attending to her basic needs for nourishment and voiding of waste, she spent sucking and squeezing to the beat of the computerized drum. With no windows or clocks it was impossible to tell how long each session lasted, or how much time separated them.

Adding to her disorientation, there was no detectable rhythm to her schedule. Sometimes her rest periods were frequent and passed quickly, other times her training continued past the point of exhaustion and the rest periods dragged on until she thought she’d go mad with pure boredom. But the girl was sure her captivity had passed into the realm of weeks, as time was measured outside her little room, rather than days.

On her second training run she had focused intently on the commands, motivated not by a desire to excel but by a frightened hope to avoid more painful shocks. She surprised herself by achieving a score of “Satisfactory.” Her surprise turned to pride in her performance, briefly, before she banished that thought and worried what the “next level” might entail. It turned out that level two, and all the levels that followed, featured pornographic videos displayed on the overhead screen.

The first film concentrated on the art of the blowjob. The action was continuous, plotless, and mechanical; the camera focused on the oral techniques of an attractive but dull-eyed blond who “starred” in the movies. There was no dialogue, only instructions issued by male voices to the blonde, who obeyed quickly, wordlessly, and with practiced skill. Rather than arousing excitement the movies were almost boring, like training films.

At random intervals but never more than 10 seconds apart, the command words would interrupt the film. The commands were flashed silently now, in a smaller font and briefly, forcing the girl to pay strict attention to the screen in order to comply and avoid punishment. With the new distractions posed by the more complex training it took the girl three tries, separated by rest breaks, feedings, and other treatments, to score Satisfactory at level 2. For hours at a time the only sounds in the little room were the slurping and humming of the actress on the screen, and the slurping and grunting of the firmly restrained girl sucking at her oral prod and bearing down on her dildos.

The level three film featured both oral and vaginal sex, and added the command word “LICK:” the girl found that a sensor on the bottom of the plastic prod strapped into her mouth could detect her swirling tongue. In addition to the command words the movies above level two were interrupted by what looked like momentary bursts of static.

As the training progressed the girl felt herself being ever more affected by the vibrating clamps and grinding dildo. At first they had been a nuisance, but as her fear of the training process faded – she was getting good enough at keeping up with the commands to avoid the little shocks, most of the time – her body began to react to the incessant teasing. At first, it was only when the stimulation intensified late in her training runs that trickles of her own juices began to supplement the artificial lube that greased the vaginal dildo. But before long she was getting wet reflexively as soon as she saw the nurse preparing the training equipment.

Soon she began to feel truly aroused during the training runs, and to seek release. She focused harder on the pornographic display, imagined herself in the role of the sexy and tireless blonde on the screen, and opened herself to the stimulation offered by the various gadgets that stroked her pleasure nerves. It was perverted, she knew, but the endless teasing had become a torture in itself. The girl cloaked her shame at her own depravity by telling herself it would be a victory to steal a moment of pleasure from under the noses of her captors.

But she could never achieve it. Whenever she came close, the rate at which the commands came seemed to pick up abruptly. In her building excitement she could never keep pace, and each time earned herself only a set of shocks and a restart of the program. What had begun as a distraction became a source of frustration.

While the training progressed, the other aspects of the girl’s development proceeded apace. The breast expansion continued, and now when she was laid out flat she could feel the weight of her swelling boobs pressing down on her chest, and the ever-stronger tugs they exerted when she hung prone in the restraining bands. But now she also had the chance to watch their growth.

At every meeting after their first, the burly therapist Ruta unstrapped her head and swung the confining headrest down and away. Chattering amiably as always, the bear-like woman grasped the girl’s head firmly in her powerful hands, turned it slowly left and right, then with irresistible strength flexed the neck forward and back, side to side. She repeated each motion several times before refastening the head strap. At these periodic head-tippings the girl checked the size of her boobs, and watched them grow in increments from plump grapefruits – already a size or two larger than her natural boobs had been – into ponderous, overripe honeydews that blocked her view of her lower body. Always, they felt hard, and sat high and round on her chest with her skin stretched taut across them. The first sign of relaxation was a signal to the developer that the next set of injections was due.

Ruta gradually added other elements to her physical therapy. Releasing both legs and the pelvic straps, she pushed the legs up and over so that the girl’s lower back bent, her toes pointed past the top her head, and the captive stared at her own shins. Then she used the legs like levers to swivel the lower body from side to side, before dropping away the saddle that cradled her subject’s butt and flexing the torso the other way, stretching her subject’s abdominals. Always, she pushed to a point just short of pain. The girl relished the stretching sessions, and thought of Ruta’s visits as breaks from the suffering, frustration and tedium that filled the rest of her time in confinement.


She had seen less of the developer, her “doctor,” during this time. He would come in occasionally to check on her, poking and prodding and checking the instruments arrayed around the room. She was always gagged when she saw him, either with the feeder or the training prod. Then came a visit when he entered with Ruta and stood right next to her table, looked down into her cheerfully paralyzed face, and smiled. The girl’s dulled mind recognized that something had changed.

“Congratulations! I was right, you have found a buyer in your pre-completion auction. The deal has just been finalized, and your new owner will soon be working out the details of your custom enhancements with our design consultants.”

The gagged female blinked. After going so long without proper sleep, it was hard for her brain to process anything beyond simple commands. But her doctor’s words penetrated the deepening fog: he was telling her she’d been sold.

“You’re very lucky this buyer took an interest in you! He’s one of our best and oldest clients. He’s a man with substantial resources, even for one of our exclusive clientele. You’ll be the third pleasure companion he’s obtained from our clinic over the years – we’ve also done a housemaid and, if I recall, a bodyservant for him, so the work of attending to his needs will not fall on you alone. He has the staff to look after you properly, and I know he keeps two homes where he can enjoy his companions discreetly, so you won’t need to worry about being locked away in some dark cellar. He does have an interest in extreme insertions, which may take some getting used to. But on the whole you’ve done very well!”

The girl blinked again. She greeted the news that her owner was a “he” with some relief, but most of the rest went over her head. The doctor’s upbeat tone was encouraging, though.

“Now, we need to unlimber those arms. When you first came to us we ground down the shoulder sockets a bit, to allow you more mobility in the joint. You’ll be able to accommodate very extreme arm bondage positions, which are so fashionable now. But as the abraded surfaces heal, adhesions tend to form in the joint. We need to break those down now. This may hurt a little the first time…”

As he spoke Ruta had been undoing the bands that had held the girl’s right arm to the table since she’d first awakened here, weeks ago. She closed her eyes in anticipation of a long-awaited release, and welcome stretching. The sturdy therapist grasped her arm – no longer numb but still strangely weak – in both hands. She drew it out and away from the girl’s body, but it swung only a short way before it bumped up against an unfamiliar soreness in her shoulder. Ruta felt it and stopped for a moment, before pushing again. Hard.

The girl’s eyes and voice snapped open together as a high-pitched scream forced itself past her feeding gag. Ruta pushed until her subject’s arm pointed straight away from her toes. It swung slowly, with a grating, ratcheting motion, like a rusty lever. Every step brought fresh agony. It hurt almost as badly when Ruta forced the arm back to its starting position at her subject’s side. Then she lifted it, so that it pointed up toward the lights, bringing more screams and free-flowing tears from her bound victim. Grim and silent now, the green-clad amazon worked the arm in every direction, then repeated the cycle.

The second time around the pain was lessened, and the girl merely groaned. But the screams came again when Ruta repeated the routine with her left arm. When she was done the burly therapist stepped back, leaving both arms laying in their sculpted recesses in the table, unsecured. The girl tried to raise them, but they were pathetically weak, and the effort only brought fresh pain to her shoulders. She had looked forward for so long to having her arms free, but now that they were she could only lay there, weeping as the pain lingered.

“Well you’ll be glad to know that was the worst of it,” the developer offered. “From now on Ruta will include arm work in your regular therapy. You’ll soon be pain-free, and have flexibility you never dreamed of. We’ve also severed two ligaments in each of your elbows, so they can be dislocated easily and painlessly. And, we’ve severed the nerves that govern the major muscles in your arms, which is why they feel so weak even though all the drugs wore off long ago. Ruta will teach you how to use the auxiliary muscles to perform the little tasks that will be required of your hands. You’re really coming along very nicely!”

Quiet, gagged sobs were the captive’s only reply.

“Ruta, let’s give her a few minutes before the rest of her therapy.” He reached down suddenly to grope the swollen tits. “Nurse, these feel a little slack already. Her skin is responding especially well to the expansion treatments. I suppose now would be a good time for the next set of injections – and after this round let’s move up to 300 CC per.”




Chapter 7 – On her Feet

The girl grunted and strained against her bonds as she squeezed the slick dildo that pumped her cunt, then clenched her ass as though she were trying to break the resilient anal prod in half. She’d managed a perfect training run so far, and the humming and stroking of her stimulators had risen to a high pitch. She was getting close to what had become her main mission in life: getting off on the plastic dildos and buzzing clips that endlessly tormented her.

A burst of static interrupted the film playing out on the monitor above, a level eight program that featured blowjobs, pussy and assfucking, titjobs, rimjobs, and a few other techniques the girl had no names for. The dazed blonde “star” of the films climbed off the prick she’d been assfucking and effortlessly deepthroated another monstrous cock. The screen momentarily flashed SUCK in tiny letters and the girl bound to the table pulled hard on the oral prod, drawing the entire faceplate in so that it flattened her lips against her teeth.

She imagined herself as the blonde, sucking not on the tasteless prod but on that beautiful, delicious cock. She squeezed the quivering, stroking pussy dildo constantly, trying to increase the friction and gain more stimulation. Through painful experience she’d learned just how hard she could squeeze before tripping the detector and earning a set of shocks for disobedience. Her nostrils flared and her body flushed, her exertions bringing forth a sheen of sweat across her forehead and her cleavage. She was so close…

Outside her field of view, green lines fluttered across the monitor connected to the wire leads that were pasted to her forehead. The machine sent a signal to the computer that governed the training program, and the pace of command words rapidly increased: SUCK – LICK – SUCK – LICK – SUCK – SUCK – CLENCH…

Oh no! Even as the plastic oral prod clicked a third consecutive time, the girl realized she’d blown it. Again.

“Aaaaaaaaaaggggggghh!” Long, intense bursts of electricity coursed through her nipples and clamped clitty, while the vibrations and cunt-pumping stopped cold.

“Disobedience will be severely punished,” the cold, all-knowing voice intoned. “Maintain strict attention at all times, follow instructions and you can avoid punishment. Program Terminated – Incomplete.” The girl’s eyes moistened in helpless frustration. She felt the blood ebb from her swollen pussy and smarting clitoris, but arousal still clattered inside her head, so intense that she heard bells. An anguished groan escaped her.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

It was her developer. In her focus on the screen and on her own stimulation, she hadn’t heard him enter. Her already pink body flushed further with the realization that he must have been watching her for some time. Now he moved to check the paper strips that had been spat out by the brainwave monitor.

“Um-hmmm. You’re making real progress. And the rest period strips have leveled out, too. Good. Nurse, let’s get her toweled off and ready for bed.”

While the nurse – who had apparently entered with him – obeyed, he flipped switches and turned dials on the brainwave monitor.  Then he moved to the computer terminal by the door and tapped out new instructions.

“Sweet dreams!” he said with a smile, then exited the room.

The nurse dried her charge thoroughly, then exchanged the training prods for the maintenance connections. The captive received an involuntary bladder-draining and a small enema – both of which had become so routine that she hardly noticed them anymore. The table was flipped into the inverted position, and the girl felt the weight of the growing, plastic filled tit-sacs pulling at the chemically softened skin of her chest. She could see her nips now, descending into view below her cheekbones. Once again the swarm of ants appeared on her feet, and the lights dimmed.


The girl dozed lightly for some time. Her unconscious mind had become conditioned to the denial of REM, and seldom attempted to descend into deep sleep. Now she might be awakened by the buzzer and flashing lights only once each rest period, if at all. But she’d had a long “day,” filled with two training sessions and breast injections and her expanding flexibility program. After a few hours cruising half-awake, her mind was again drawn down into the depths….

She saw strange shapes stirring in the darkness. It was the nurse and doctor, standing over her. The room was half illuminated with a soft blue light, and the figures were distorted, like she was looking up through a fisheye lens. Their voices were muffled and unintelligible – but the nurse was speaking! This couldn’t be her nurse, or her room….but it was someplace she’d been before, long ago. She was in dreamland.

She was afraid! She knew she wasn’t allowed to dream – she’d be punished somehow. But nothing happened.

The doctor addressed the nurse in a muffled voice. They tipped her table into the vertical position, and undid all the restraining bands, one by one.

“You’ve been a very good girl.” Her doctor smiled at her and extended his hand in gentlemanly fashion. She reached out and clasped it, and stepped easily out of her restraints. She felt light as air, walking naked on her toes as he led her to the door. It swung open silently before them.

Outside was not the sterile white corridor she’d imagined, but a large, moodily lit room draped with silk curtains in purple and blood red. The doctor led her by the hand across ankle-deep white carpet to the only piece of furniture, an ornately carved stool in the center of the circular room, and invited her to sit.

“Enjoy your reward. You’ve earned it!” He turned and departed, the door closing behind him. The girl sat quietly on the stool, her hands folded in her lap. She looked down at herself. Her boobs were huge, jutting, perfect pears. Beneath her trim waist, her lush buttocks made for a comfortable seat on the lightly upholstered stool. She felt her auburn hair, clean and curly, draped across her shoulders and down her back. She smelled of perfume, and felt beautiful.

Suddenly there were rustlings in the draperies. In the shadows behind the lurid silks a platoon of erect dicks appeared, eight or ten approaching from all around and pointed straight at her. As they emerged from the darkness she saw they were attached to tall and muscular male figures, with generically handsome faces that looked down on her sternly. The figures advanced slowly until they circled her, shoulder-to-shoulder, their long, stiff pricks like a ring of spears. When the dull points were just within her reach, the figures stopped and stared down at her, unsmiling.

Fearfully, she leaned forward and reached out to one of the intimidating cocks, not sure what was expected of her. After hesitating for a moment, she touched the tip lightly, then curled her fingers around the shaft. Slowly she began to stroke up and down its length.

With a quick motion the figure behind the prick knocked her hand away and ordered: “Suck!”

Immediately she fell to her knees on the soft carpet and inhaled him, stroking her lips up and down the shaft just behind the glans. The entire cock was far too much to take into her mouth. It tasted sweet and clean, like prime steak to a starving man.

“Suck!” said the figure to her left. She drew her lips off the first cock with a pop, and plunged down on the second. As she stroked the figure slowly reached forward and grasped her head, pressing its fingertips hard against the sides of her skull. Slowly, while she looked up past chiseled abs into the statue-like visage, the male drew her to him, burying his length between her lips. Pressure built against the back of her mouth, but then he plunged past that constriction and down her throat. She was afraid for a moment, but fear gave way to arousal as she felt his knob sliding painlessly and excitingly up and down inside her neck. Feeling no need to breathe, she closed her eyes as her privates began to tingle…

The male pulled her off its member and slapped her across the face, sending her reeling back against the stool. “Maintain strict attention at all times! Follow instructions and you can avoid punishment!”

“Suck!” said another figure to her right. Rubbing her cheek quickly she crawled to him, and took the third prick between her lips. This time she made only three short strokes before herself pushing her head towards his groin and taking his glans down her throat. She rocked back and forth on her knees, feeling her heavy tits swing while his lemon-sized cockhead bulged out the front of her neck. Her nipples and clitty were hardening, her tight little pussy moistening, but she held eye contact with the impassive face far above.

“Suck!” said a figure behind her, and she scrambled around the stool to obey. After she’d throated the fourth cock for a minute, its owner gripped her head firmly and spoke into her upturned face, “Stand!”

With some difficulty she climbed to her toes, bent at the waist with her mouth still filled by the steel-hard prick. She craned her neck and rolled her eyes as far back as she could, trying to hold eye contact with the figure before her. She felt another cock nosing between her round butt cheeks, and reached behind herself to spread her ass while arching her back to better expose her pussy. In a moment the unseen rod was pushing into her now sopping female passage. She gasped around the cock in her mouth as with one stroke the second dick filled her box to its limit.

“Squeeze!” commanded a voice behind her, and she clamped down on the rigid tool. The figure to her rear grasped her wide hips, and both he and the male that gripped her skull began pushing her back and forth, working their pricks in and out of her mouth and cunt while she squeezed and sucked to match their pace, her heavy boobs swinging beneath her. The rest of the figures moved in close around them, and began jacking off above her.

Slowly the pace of the double-team fucking increased, until the huge athletic figures threw her back and forth between them as though she were a doll. Pressure grew rapidly, and she began to groan with pleasure, moaning around the rigid cock that slid back and forth between her lips. She let go of her own asscheeks and clutched the hard thighs of the figure before her.

Suddenly she felt a raindrop on her back, and the stern figure with whom she locked eyes ordered:


Release came instantly, like an explosion of fireworks in her brain. She forced repeated screams past the mouth-fucking dick, in rhythm with the continued pounding. Her cunt spasmed around the cock that reamed it, increasing the friction and driving her to greater heights. She felt the prick in her mouth pulsing, and hot goo shooting into her belly, while the raindrops on her back built into a downpour of hot spunk.

Her knees buckled, and her cries turned plaintive, but the strong hands that grasped her took on her weight and continued to slam her back and forth upon their still-hard members while her jugs flopped back and forth crazily.

She came again, and again, and again. The flow of rich milky semen seemed endless – she felt it backing up in her throat, and being forced out of her overfilled box around the pistoning dick. By the time her partners were fully drained, she was barely conscious. They drew themselves out of her and released their grips, letting her fall in a heap to the thick carpet, where she leaned her sperm-coated back against the stool. A trio of males who were not out of ammunition advanced and whacked off over her, spraying her face and chest with pints of sticky goo. Gasping, she ran her tongue around her lips and tasted their seed as the silk-draped room faded into darkness.


“Have a good night?”

The developer smiled broadly as he read the paper strip printed out by the brainwave monitor, as though he could read the girl’s thoughts. Maybe he could, she thought.

Yes, it had been a good night. She’d awakened from the violent, hyper-sexed dreams hornier than ever, but the visions had at least provided a change of scenery from the crushing monotony of her imprisonment. And she felt more awake and clearer of mind than she could remember. For the first time since her abduction, she had a feeling that something good might actually happen today.

“Today’s a big day! We’re going to get you up on your feet. Ruta, show our girl her new shoes.”

The big green-garbed woman stepped into view, holding a strange object. The shiny red upper looked like it belonged to a very narrow slipper, but the inch-wide ankle strap was at the wrong angle. The sole was a black rubber wedge, but it was backwards: the narrow end of the wedge was at the heel, while the wide end extended just past the toe.

As the girl watched, Ruta smiled and rotated the shoe ninety degrees. Now it made more sense – if barely. The shoe would fit as long as her foot pointed straight down, in line with her shin. What she had first taken as the front of the backwards-wedge sole was actually the bottom, a beveled rectangular pad about two inches square.

“These only trainers,” the big woman said in her thick Slavic accent. “They help you learn walk on toes, like pretty dancer. Later you get the big heels, like needles.”

“Alright, one step at a time,” the doctor laughed. “Let’s get those on.”

The electrostim pads were peeled off, and the nurse wiped and dried the girl’s feet thoroughly. The pain and soreness were almost completely gone; only the outer sides of her feet remained slightly tender to the touch. Ruta gingerly slipped the shoes onto the girl’s feet, then tightened the ankle straps and more wide straps over the insteps. The developer pulled the catches behind the table and slowly lifted its captive into a vertical position, so that she felt the weight of her new jugs pulling downwards on her chest. They had softened noticeably during her inverted rest period, and sagged out of her view.

“Safety first,” her doctor said, while Ruta fitted a wide padded collar around the girl’s neck. “You’ve been off your feet for a long time, and we don’t want you to hurt yourself if you should take a tumble.” Ruta released the forehead strap, placed a lightweight helmet on the girl’s head and buckled it under her chin. Then she held a curved rubber mouthguard before the captive’s face.

The girl hesitated, unsure whether she should cooperate. She just stared at the guard with her mouth closed. Ruta’s smile faded slightly, but when she touched the guard to her charge’s closed lips the mouth opened reflexively and almost sucked it out of her fingers.

The girl was surprised by her own reaction – had she meant to do that? Ruta twisted a knob on the outside of the guard, extending firm rubber pegs inside the girl’s mouth that spread her jaw and held the protective gag in place.

The developer pushed a lever and a quiet hiss of air was heard. The entire table slowly descended until the soles of the strange shoes just touched the tile floor. Ruta undid the restraining bands one by one, and the girl’s feet took on more and more of her weight. The soreness in her feet reappeared, but it was bearable, the shoes being well designed to support and distribute the load, and the discomfort was insignificant next to her eagerness to try her legs. She noticed sadly that when her arms were released they hung limp at her sides. She barely had the strength to swing them a few degrees.

The last band to go was the one above her big new boobs. Ruta put her meaty hands up under her subject’s arms as the developer released it.

“Step forward, I have you.”

Tentatively, the girl slid her left foot forward a few inches. She felt tension building at her back, as though she were glued to the table. She pushed the right foot forward with greater force, and there was a sticky peeling sound as the table released her. She stumbled forward into Ruta’s arms, her knees shaking violently and toes groping for the floor.

The huge woman laughed heartily and hugged her much smaller charge, as the girl’s huge round tits pressed against her therapists’ midsection. “Is OK, OK! Take your time, get feet under you!”

The girl calmed herself and with an effort pressed her toes to the floor, then straightened her knees again. “See? Like riding bike, they say.” Ruta stepped back, her strong hands steadying the wobbly trainee at arm’s length. “Come to me.”

The girl put one foot forward, then the other, taking halting steps a few inches long. Balancing was tricky, especially with the ponderous new counterweights that projected in front of her. She had to thrust her shoulders well back to balance the load of the volleyball-sized orbs. With each step Ruta retreated a like distance, steadying the girl but allowing her to carry her own weight.

When they had traveled a few feet, the doctor spoke. “Let her turn around and see where she’s been all this time.”

Like a lead dancer Ruta pivoted the pair clockwise, the girl shuffling her feet as they slowly spun. When she had turned completely around Ruta looked her up and down to be sure she was steady, then braced her with one hand and stepped to the side.

The “table” was like nothing the girl had imagined. There was no flat surface at all – it was really a conglomeration of sculpted shapes, each one designed to support a particular body part. The material that had supported her from behind was a black mesh, through which she could glimpse the complex steel armature that had carried her weight while allowing her limbs to be flexed or rotated individually. The whole contraption was mounted inside a pair of sturdy steel posts bolted to the floor, which allowed the “table” to spin between them. It was an impressive piece of equipment – but sinister. As it stood there empty, the open bands seemed to beckon to her, calling her back into their grasp. She shuddered and took an unsteady step back.

“OK, is OK, I have you.” said Ruta, stepping again between her charge and the threatening device. “Come this way, we walk.”

Slowly she turned them again and led her charge toward the door. When her wide butt bumped against it, she stopped and moved behind the girl, again placing one hand under each arm. “Do you want go outside?”

The girl was suddenly afraid, as though for a moment this little white room was all she knew, and the world outside the door was a mysterious and frightening place. But she nodded her helmeted head slowly, pressing her chin against the padded collar. Ruta reached out and touched a hand-sized metal plate next to the door, which swung open silently.

For a moment the girl remembered her dream, but there were no curtains or plush carpet – only a bare, white-tiled hallway. Ruta gave her a nudge and together they shuffled haltingly out of the room. They turned and began to make their way slowly down the corridor, which was perhaps 60 feet long and broken by several closed and windowless doors to either side. At the end of the corridor was a large double door, which did have small windows at eye level.

“Very good!” the developer called from behind them. “When you get back from therapy there’ll be more exciting things waiting – the orders for your custom mods have come in! We’ll get started as soon as Ruta is done with you.”

Ruta whispered to her: “Don’t worry that now. Focus your steps, you do very good.”

Prevented by the collar from looking down at her feet, the girl had no choice. With the unbalanced load she carried on her wobbly knees, she had to concentrate entirely on staying upright on the tiny-bottomed shoes or she’d topple over. The heavy tit-balls swung back and forth with each step, making the liquid plastic slosh inside and forcing constant compensations to maintain her balance. She blushed at the humiliation of having such vulgar absurdities grafted onto her body, and wondered if they were already full or destined to be made even larger.

But as she moved slowly towards the double door, she grew steadier with every step. She was an athlete, and had been in excellent condition when first brought here. Thanks to Ruta’s dedicated therapy, she had preserved much of her flexibility and strength through her long confinement. Other than the new burdens on her chest, her main problem was that her nervous system had misplaced some of the details of how to walk. Now, as she shuffled down the corridor on her toes, the blank spaces were rapidly reprogrammed and the front-heavy, tip-toe gait began to feel almost natural. By the time they reached the end of the hall she was lifting her feet and bending her knees, and Ruta needed only her strong fingertips to guide and steady her.

When they stood before the double door the girl could see movement through one of the small windows.

“This therapy room,” said Ruta as she reached to the side of the hallway and pressed another switch plate. The doors swung open and the girl gazed about a room the size of a basketball court, which held a variety of equipment. As she stepped inside, she thought it looked like a gym. There was a large area covered with a green mat, an assortment of fitness machines – some familiar and others odd – and some big, bulky objects that were either modern-art sculptures or padded gymnastics equipment.

The motion she’d glimpsed through the window belonged to the room’s only other occupant: another naked girl who rode one of the two treadmills set along the back wall. Bent forward at the waist, she jogged along at what the girl could see was a high speed and incline. Her legs were toned and thickly muscled, disproportionately to her small upper body. Her chest was broad and deep, but the boobs were mere swellings on the underside of her ribcage. The girl from the table took in the other’s feet: she ran on her toes, but these had been fitted or fused into a single pad, like the “hoof” modification the computer had shown her. Her face looked pretty, though marred by a black bit strapped across her mouth that pulled her lips back from her white teeth. Blinders restricted her vision, while leads from the head harness bound her to the treadmill. The runner’s arms were hidden, apparently bound behind her back.

“The new racing pony,” Ruta said. “Always running! You more lucky, get easy job. Come! First thing is massage!” Gently she guided her charge to a pair of long padded tables.

“Up!” Clumsily and with a strong assist from Ruta, the girl clambered onto a table and laid face down. Her face fit neatly into an oval hole in the table, so that she stared at the floor. Hollows were also located beneath her outsized and unnaturally firm tits, so that laying face-down was not uncomfortable. Ruta helped her lift her weakened arms and lay them at her sides.

“So long, so long. You must be so tight.” She began kneading the long disused muscles along the girl’s back, and sent her quickly into a near-euphoric state. As she thumped and squeezed up and down the back, butt, thighs, and neck, the release of tension and feeling of fresh blood flowing through such a large area of the girl’s body was almost like an orgasm! When the massage was finally over she was dazed, almost asleep.

“Up!” Ruta repeated, “Up!” The girl could barely lift her head out of the padded hole. Ruta quickly slid her big hands between her and the padded table and partly encouraged, partly lifted the girl back onto her feet. She had to steady her tenderized charge for a moment as she recovered, and remembered what she’d learned about walking in the training shoes.

“Now, we get good stretch!” She steered the gagged, toddling girl to the wide mat.

“Down!” Awkwardly the smaller female fell to her knees, making her swollen boobs bounce uncomfortably. Ruta removed the helmet and collar, but left the mouthguard in place.

“On back!” Her charge obeyed, and extended her legs. Ruta began working her out throughly. Legs, butt, torso, neck – nearly every muscle in the girl’s body was stretched to its limit in a session that must have lasted an hour. She became nervous when Ruta started in on her arms, but was relieved to find she’d regained her original mobility. Ruta, though, asked for even more, trying it seemed to wrench her wrists up between her shoulders. When she firmly bent each unresisting arm double, a popping sound came from the elbow and the back of the girl’s hand touched her shoulder.

The all-over stretching felt wonderful, but the subject of the attention was tired when it was done.

“Now, your turn to work.” Ruta smiled as they both sat on the mat facing each other. “Give me your hands!”

The girl would have frowned, if she could. Ruta held her own hands at chest height, inviting, but the girl’s biceps were dead. Her arms barely twitched when she tried to lift them. But with encouragement and cajoling, Ruta was able to show her that she could use the smaller auxiliary muscles to raise her forearms. At first the girl was somewhat encouraged, but it was so difficult and tiring to make even the simplest motions that she began to despair. She remained gagged, and her mask-like face could not communicate her frustration, so it was not until Ruta saw tears welling in her eyes that the bulky therapist realized they’d pushed far enough.

“OK, just one more time dear.” This time she grasped her charge’s hands and helped her raise them a little higher. The girl noticed black and red markings on the inside of her forearms, and tilted her head to look closer. She saw in block letters a half-inch high:



The gagged girl turned her wet brown eyes back to Ruta.

“Is only ink,” the big woman explained with a smile. “For clinic staff. Soon wash away. No worry, your new man no see the ugly words!”

Her subject’s mouth never stopped smiling around the rubber mouthguard, even as tears fell onto the upper slopes of her jutting tits. The racing pony went on jogging behind them. For a moment the only sounds in the room were the thump of her hooves, and the puffs of air that rushed loudly in and out of her bellows-like chest.




Chapter 8 – Meet the “Hoe

Ruta allowed her teary charge no time to mope over the realization that her arms had been reduced to fashion accessories. After replacing the helmet and collar she stood the girl up, and they concluded her first therapy session with a walk around the perimeter of the PT room.

Sturdy handrails framed a walkway that circled the gym, but they were useless to the modified prisoner. Ruta walked behind her, guiding and bracing her with her hands, offering encouragements but always nudging her forward. The girl was forced to focus on her feet in order to stay upright on the toe-shoes, and as they walked her shoulders-back, tip-toed gait continued to improve. As she became steadier Ruta showed her how to stride more smoothly by swinging her wide hips.

When they made the turn to walk along the back of the room the girl again saw the hard-working pony, who continued jogging on the inclined treadmill. A long silky tail erupted from just above her muscular buttocks to bounce in time with her stride. But something else was wrong…. the pony’s arms were not bound behind her back, but were missing completely. Her shoulders ended in smooth curved bumps; as the girl passed close behind she could not see any scars.

The girl wondered if this could be a birth defect – then remembering that she herself had been born with healthy arms, and ten toes. She shivered with fear and revulsion. Was there no barbarity that was beyond her captors? She closed her eyes and felt her way with her toes as Ruta guided her past the humming treadmill.

“Pony always running now,” the chatty amazon said behind her. “Big show soon, and race. Our clinic win many show ribbons, maybe this pony win race too. Good luck, pony! We all root for you!” From behind them came a strange sound, like a high-pitched and muffled whinny of a horse.

Finally Ruta and her charge completed the circuit and stood by the wide double doors. The girl’s recently modified feet ached badly.

“Very good, dear. You walk so pretty! Now, we take you back to your room to rest….Yes, you must. No other bed for you while you stay here.” She pushed the wall plate that opened the doors, and they started back down the long corridor.

When they were about halfway along, one of the several swinging doors behind them opened with a bang. The girl heard the grating squeak of a wheel in need of grease, and male voices.

“O-R 1, did they say?”

“No, number 2. I think they changed it. Excuse us Ruta, priority traffic!”

Ruta used her fingertips to guide her charge to the side of the hallway, where the mismatched pair stood with their backs to the wall. Two white-clad orderlies wheeled a gurney through one of the side doors and down the corridor in their direction.

Rotating her head within the padded collar the girl saw that the patient on the wheeled stretcher was a blonde, her legs elevated and spread by stirrups mounted to the gurney rails. She was draped with a white sheet that bloused up over her breasts and hung like a tent over her raised legs, leaving only her head and bare feet visible. As the side door swung shut behind the gurney the girl caught a whiff of an odd smell – fresh air. The orderlies resumed their conversation.

“Some of these clients, you gotta wonder. They spend all this money – you think they’d read the fuckin’ manual.”


“I think this’s the third time for this guy, that I know of. First he wants to use this cunt to warm his sake…”

“You gotta admit, that was inspired!”

“OK, but they make smaller bottles. Then the toy train, and now this…”

As the gurney approached, the girl looked down at its passenger. Framed by bright golden kielbasa curls, a pretty but ash-gray face stared still and wide-eyed at the ceiling passing overhead. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose. As she rolled past the girl could see that the sheet underneath the blonde was stained with blood. Between her raised legs and poking out from under the drape was the drooping silver tail of a large fish.

“I’m no surgeon,” the irritated orderly continued, “but I know even Doctor B. can only rebuild a cunt so many times. I bet he has to go to a prosthesis after this.”

“Don’t get worked up,” his partner offered calmly. “It’s the client’s cunt, he paid for it. It’s none of our business what he wants to stuff up there. Repairs are just more coin for the clinic, anyway. Stuff like this isn’t covered by warranty.”

“I guess.” The first orderly paused for a moment, then chuckled. “Maybe I just get pissed off cause shit like this reminds me of my big brother breaking my toys when I was a kid!”

The orderlies shared a little laugh as they and the gurney disappeared through another door at the far end of the hall. The girl stared at the closing door for a moment, in shock. Her frozen doll’s face and “decorative” arms, the mutilated pony, and now this abomination… It was all too surreal to be actually happening. She had to be dreaming!

Ruta tapped her on the shoulder. “OK, we go, almost home.”

Torn between denial and dread, the girl allowed herself to be guided the last few steps to her room. When they entered she saw the “table” waiting for her in the vertical position, just as they’d left it. The many restraining bands hung open, like arms inviting an embrace. When she looked into the sculpted slings that had supported her body she felt something like a gravitational attraction.

But then her attention was drawn to a new piece of equipment standing by the wall. It was a beefily-framed steel box four feet high by two long, only eight inches wide at the top though it spread out somewhat at the bottom. It stood on heavy casters, and cigar-shaped tanks like those used for pressurized gases were mounted on its sides. The box was topped with a strange piece of machinery: a pair of black cylinders mounted horizontally, one above the other, plumbed with shiny steel lines and studded with knobs and gauges.

What was this? the girl wondered. Was it time for the final step in her breast enlargement, the last inflation that would turn the liquid plastic filling her new orbs into bubbly foam?

“OK, back to the table,” Ruta said gently as she dropped her hands for a moment and moved around to face her subject.

“Nnnnnnnh!” Without thinking the gagged girl seized the moment of freedom and stepped back. But she was not ready yet to make such sudden moves, and caught a rubber-shod toe on the tile floor. She staggered backwards, knocked her helmeted head against the wall and slid to the floor, jarring her tailbone while the sloshing melons on her chest bounced painfully.

Ruta’s puffy face darkened as she stared down at her rebellious charge, huge hands on her hips. “Now sudden you want make trouble. I warn you, remember. Now, get up.”

For a moment they locked eyes. Ruta’s stare was cold and frightening. The girl cast her eyes around the room wildly still seeking, irrationally, to flee. But quickly the futility of the idea became clear to her, and she lowered her head in resignation. After a moment she struggled to get her feet under her, but with her useless arms and the strapped-on toe-shoes it seemed impossible. After some whining exertions her butt still rested on the floor, and she looked up at the amazonian therapist for help.

“So you need Ruta’s help, yes? OK, I help you.” The thick bear’s paws reached down and clutched the phony tits, strong short-nailed fingers digging in behind the stretched aureolas and dragging her upwards. “Up you come!”

“Aaaah!” The girl whined but quickly found the means to get her feet under her and take the load off her abused jugs. Leaning against the wall she pressed down on her toes until she stood again, while the huge woman still clutched her nipples. The girl looked up into the face she’d thought of almost as a friend’s, feeling betrayed.

“I warn you about trouble. You good girl, no make Ruta punish you. I no like to punish. But I have job, and no silly girl make Ruta look bad.” She stared for a moment into the frightened eyes, then suddenly smiled again. “OK, we forget it! Now, to the table.”

Still holding the girl by the nipples, but more gently now, the green-smocked giant guided the shuffling feet until her charge stood with her back against the webs. The first band she closed was the one across the upper chest, just under the shoulders. After the headband was resecured and as Ruta fastened the many restraints one by one across her torso and legs, the girl noticed shiny steel projecting from behind her head and past her face. While she’d been in therapy the oral restraints had been remounted.


Ruta had removed the helmet and collar and was closing the last arm bands when the door banged open and two familiar sets of footsteps entered. The developer spoke cheerfully, as always.

“So, how was the first full therapy session?”

“Very good, doctor. She learn walk fast, and flexi-blitty very good for so soon. No problem to report.” Ruta shot the bound girl a quick smiling glance, as if she were keeping a secret.

“Excellent. The custom mod orders for our girl have come in, and we’re going to move right ahead with them. Here’s a copy for you.” He handed a thin binder to the therapist, who began flipping through it.

“We have some time before she goes under again, so after you review the orders let me know what you can get done with her between now and the surgeries.”

“OK, yes, I will. I leave her to you now. Bye dear! Be good with doctor, soon you be most pretty girl!” Ruta smiled once more and thumped out the door on her sneakers.

“Now,” the doctor spoke to the bound and gagged girl as he flipped through the small binder. “We have some very exciting changes in store for you. Your new master is interested in the newest technology, so there’s a long list of the most advanced treatments here. He’s ordered a full set of our latest oral mods for you, including ‘gills’ and the XDT port. Your breast expansion will continue as planned but an interesting nipple treatment has been added. He’s excited about our new ‘invisible corset,’ and with your high starting hip-to-waist ratio you’re a natural for that treatment. He’s also asked for the hot button programming, and…”

He looked up from the binder. “Never mind, I’m sure this is Greek to you. Trust me that you’re going to emerge from this development as a remarkable, state-of-the-art companion. There’s one thing you should be able to understand, though: your master has picked a name for you. He’s a bit of a romantic, I think, and based on your heritage and coloration he fancies you his harem girl. From this moment on, you are Jasmine. Though you must also respond to Doll, or Dolly.”

Above her gag the girl blinked brown eyes at the developer. Surely, morning must be coming soon. She waited eagerly for the sound of the alarm clock, and looked forward to telling her friends about this incredible nightmare.

“The invasive procedures will have to wait until the surgical team is next assembled – we only get everyone together when we have several projects ready for them to work on – but we can get started now with some of the simpler adjustments.”

The masked nurse had entered along with the doctor, and while he’d spoken of changes to come she’d busied herself about the new machine. The restrained girl had watched with curious unease as the black-clad attendant screwed onto the upper of the two horizontal cylinders a shiny, 18 inch long metal shaft tipped with a miniature black football. A thin hose was coiled around the shaft; the black-gloved hands connected it to a fitting on the machinery. Now as the doctor finished speaking the nurse approached, holding an electric clipper.

Oh no! the helpless girl recoiled. He said I might not keep my hair!

The doctor moved behind the girl and popped the catches, laying her out flat. The lower part of the table split again, opening her legs silently. With a buzz the nurse began shaving away the captive’s already short-cropped pubic hair. The doctor pushed another lever, and the girl’s arms were splayed wide until she lay spread under the lights like a starfish. The nurse moved to her sides and shaved her armpits as well.

While the doctor continued his own preparations the silent nurse inserted the catheter and enema tubes, and inflated the small balloons that held them in place. Then she retrieved a jar of cream from the wall cabinet, and with firm circular motions rubbed it into the girl’s shaved underarms and mound. In a moment the sites warmed with a chemical heat. When the nurse had coated the shaved areas throughly the girl’s bound arms were adjusted downward again, so that they angled out from her body at about 30 degrees. The heat from the cream built until it was uncomfortable, but stopped short of real pain.

“Double-check those plugs, Twelve, we don’t want a mess now.” The obedient assistant tugged again at the catheter and anal waste tubes, then swabbed the plumbed captive’s outstretched arm with alcohol as the doctor stood by holding a needle-tipped syringe.

“I’m going to give you a muscle relaxant. I think you’ll see it’s for the best.” He bent and administered the injection. As he and the nurse continued their preparations the girl felt her tense muscles softening under their restraints.

The doctor rolled his stool next to her head, and the nurse positioned a tool-filled cart next to him. Twisting the knob on the rubber mouthguard he drew it from his subject’s jaws, which snapped shut behind it.

“Come on Jasmine, open your mouth.” He held a rubber wedge before the girl’s face, and smiled for a moment at her grinning refusal. The moment he brushed the wedge against her lips the girl opened as if to suck on it. Quickly he pushed the wedge between her teeth, propping her jaw open.

Dammit! She cursed herself silently as he swung the steel fingers of the oral restraints into her mouth. Did she have any control over herself anymore?

In a few minutes the girl’s mouth was spread wide again by the shining arms, her lower jaw clamped and her entire head pushed back rigidly into the headrest. The developer removed the now redundant rubber wedge and presented her with the tongue forceps.

“You know the routine. But control yourself this time; don’t make me knock you out just for a little dental work.”

With a whine of symbolic protest the helpless prisoner offered her tongue, which the developer quickly grasped and stretched until the grommeted piercing slipped over the steel hook on her chin. From the cart he produced a skinny 5 inch long rubber tube, flared at one end and glistening along its length with lubricating gel. With a smooth motion he slipped the narrow end of the tube up the girl’s nostril, feeding it in until the flared end pressed against the bottom of her nose and she tasted rubber at the top of her throat. Then he fitted a diaphragm into the back of her gaped mouth, well behind her teeth.

The acrid scent and taste of rubber overwhelmed the girl’s senses. She could breathe now only through her nose, and the tube that ensured her airway.

Next, the developer drew from the cart a curved plastic nozzle that trailed a clear tube; he flipped a switch on the cart and the nozzle made an sucking sound. He hung the suction tube at the corner of the stretched mouth, where it slurped up the girl’s copious saliva noisily.

“Now let’s take care of those teeth.”

The prisoner shivered under the hot lights. She hated visits to the dentist in any case, but the addition of the macabre restraints made this almost too much to bear. She closed her eyes and waited for the poking and scraping to begin, hoping he wouldn’t drill.

The developer reached into the girl’s spread mouth with a plier-like tool, grasped an upper front incisor firmly in its serrated jaws and wrenched it from her gum. He dropped the perfect white tooth into a steel bowl with a clink, and had pulled its twin to the left before the girl even understood what was happening. Her eyes snapped open in pain and shock, and she made a long mourning wail that was muffled by the rubber oral dam.

“Oh, stop it,” the developer admonished as he wrenched out a cuspid. “Unless you want Twelve to give you something to cry about?”

The wail fell to a whimper that went on as he worked his way around her mouth – grasping, wrenching, throwing away. The girl tasted blood, and the suction tube gurgled loudly. The pain was bad enough, but every clink of another tooth in the steel bowl sounded like a nail in her coffin.

She closed her runny eyes again and whined abjectly as the developer relocated her tongue to a stud on the metal arm above her upper lip. The pliers worked their way around her lower jaw, as the suction tube slurped again.

Finally one last clink. The developer released the pinned tongue and leaned back on his stool.

“OK, not so bad, eh? And no more flossing!”

The swollen red eyes of his restrained victim looked back at him piteously, begging for a better explanation. With her pierced tongue she felt around the soft, oozing gums.

“Now your gums have some time to heal, before the surgeons do the rest of your mouth work. Taking the teeth now means less bleeding later, and less time under the general anaesthetic, which reduces your risks.”

After a moment he sighed at her dissatisfaction with his obvious logic. “Alright, Twelve, pack her mouth with as much gauze as it’ll hold, and then clean up the depilatory. I’m not going to spend all day explaining things to a doll.”

The developer stood and pushed his cart to the counter by the wall. He set aside the bloody dental tools for the nurse to clean, washed his hands and began loading the cart-top tray with what he needed for the next procedure. Suddenly he heard an urgent, muffled whine. He turned and saw the nurse using her black thumb to jam cotton pads between the helpless girl’s spread lips. Below wide eyes the mouth was already stuffed to comic proportions; the flushing cheeks bulged like red balloons. He had to laugh.

“OK Twelve, that’s quite enough. I didn’t mean for you to go for the record. Clean her up now.” The nurse cleaned the girl’s face and wiped the spent follicle-killing cream from her armpits and pubic mound with moist towels, while the developer loosened the oral restraints and worked their steel fingers out from between gums and tight-packed gauze. Finally the nurse wrapped an elastic bandage tightly around the girl’s lower face and stuffed mouth.

“Now it’s time for you to meet the HOE.”

The two clinicians disappeared toward the foot of the table and the strange new machine, and in a moment the abused girl heard a quiet farting noise. The sound was made by a slippery gel oozing under pressure from the tip of the little black football, in response to the developer’s push of a button on the machine’s control box. The nurse spread the gel liberally over the thick rubber bulb, while the doctor loaded his gloved fingers with a generous blob of goo.

The still-teary victim shuddered and whined into the packed gauze as she felt cool gel touch her bald nether lips. A probing latex-wrapped digit penetrated her, then withdrew, then entered again. The developer was pushing gobs of gel deep into her tight, toned pussy. After a half-dozen pokes he held his finger inside and she felt him rotate and flex it, testing her lubrication and elasticity.

“Squeeze!” he said suddenly, and without thinking she clamped down on the intruding digit.

“Mmm-hmm. You have been a good girl! It’s too bad, really.”

His finger was drawn out of her, and the girl heard a heavy rumbling as the mysterious machine was wheeled into position between her spread legs. There were loud metallic thunks as the developer engaged lugs that held it to the floor.

“You must try to relax, Jasmine. There’s no fighting this – you’d only cause yourself more pain.”

An evil hiss was heard from below and in a moment she felt the little football nosing into her greased pussy. If this is a nightmare, she thought, please God let me wake up now!

The rubber intruder pressed forward. The girl fought the muscle relaxants and clamped down as hard as she could, but even without the drugs it would have been like trying to stop a train. Her eyelashes fluttered as thousands of pounds of hydraulic force pushed the bulb slowly into her, until it pressed against the dead end of her pleasure tunnel. She had never been so full.

Then there was a puffing sound, and the football grew until she felt stretched to her absolute limit. Above her stuffed and bandage-wrapped mouth her eyes bugged, and the breaths that rushed through the rubber nasal tube turned quick and shallow.

“OK, we have a starting depth of 19cm, and at test pressure we have 70mm diameter, internal….” There was a sound of keys being tapped, then the girl felt the walls of her pussy strain along their length as the bulb withdrew until one end peeked out between her lower lips. “…and 75mm at entrance.” More keystrokes, then the developer touched one last button and leaned back. The football burrowed slowly into the captive’s belly, then withdrew again.

After ten deliberate strokes the machine stopped with the bulb held at maximum depth. There was another puff of air, and the football swelled just a little more before resuming its slow, greasy pumping motion…




Chapter 9 – “Jasmine”

The girl’s discomfort turned to agony. When the pneumatic fist of the HOE pushed inwards her entire restrained body was forced up on the table, so that her head rocked back in its rest. When it withdrew, she felt like she was being turned inside out. The muscles of her tight young pussy strained and popped painfully as the horrible bulb was worked back and forth with irresistible force. After a dozen more strokes it paused….then after a spurt of additional lubricant came another puff of pressurized air as the merciless device expanded to take up the slack created in her stretching box.

Physical pain took a back seat to mental anguish, as she realized in her torment that this machine’s purpose was not stimulation or training. They were purposefully, measuredly, permanently ruining her. Before leaving her to suffer alone the developer looked down into the girl’s flushed, gauze-stuffed, tear-streaked face.

“I have to admit that to me, it seems like a waste of a fine, tight cunt. But you know what they say: the customer is always right!”


Sometime during the tortuous pussy-stretching the girl’s tears dried up. She had crossed that final threshold of abuse, into the unendurable.

If this had been an interrogation she would have spilled her guts long ago, and as soon as the pneumatic fist had swollen inside her she would’ve agreed to whatever accusations her tormentor might have made against her friends, her mother, or herself. But he didn’t ask her anything, he demanded no confessions. There seemed to be nothing she could do to satisfy him or his mindless machines.

Traumatized, unable even to grasp why the developer tortured her this way and long bereft of hope for rescue, the girl’s mind took the only path of escape it could. The shy, bright college student detached herself from intolerable reality and retreated deep into the recesses of her own brain.


When the HOE had with brutal precision stretched its victim’s vagina not quite to the point of rupture, it switched into a maintenance mode. Still greased regularly by the lube injector, the rubber bulb deflated slightly and moved slowly back and forth inside the girl, preventing her pussy from contracting again.

The broken captive’s gaze was fixed, almost unblinkingly, at the dark overhead monitor when the developer returned to inspect her now gaping cunt.

“Well, there it is. Nurse, bring me the retainer…” The doctor trailed off as he noted his subject’s blank, dry-eyed stare. He snapped his fingers before her face, then shone a penlight into the empty eyes. At last he switched off the light, stroked the girl’s hair and spoke to her gently.

“I see you’ve come to understand your role here, Jasmine. That’s a good girl.”

Abandoned and groping for a means of self-preservation, the girl’s mind seized upon the identity of the harem-doll Jasmine. Just tell her who this Jasmine was, and if that’s what the developer wanted she would play the part. Maybe if she played it well enough, he would stop hurting her.

The nurse handed the developer the “retainer,” a large plastic dildo. He pushed a button and the HOE retracted its cruel rubber fist; there was a loud slurping sound as it departed the scene of its crimes. The developer took a look inside the wide open tunnel before pressing the big retainer in to its hilts.

“Doesn’t that feel good?”

It did, actually, as the firm prop served to splint the wounded organ and prevented the overstressed tissues from swelling with blood. The retainer was soothingly cool, too: it was fresh from the refrigerator, and filled with heat-absorbing gel.

The nurse wrapped a nylon belt around the victim’s waist and used three elastic straps to secure the retainer in place, two descending from above the hips in front, and another between the butt cheeks in the back. The rear strap featured a small steel snap-ring for the plumbed captive’s anal waste tube to pass through.

“Rest now, Jasmine. You’re going to find your time will pass much more easily now, as long as you do what’s expected of you. Tomorrow you’ll start a new training program designed just for you, so you can learn how to satisfy your master and make him happy. If you do he may treat you well, even pamper you, and treat you like a rare and precious thing.”

“Just remember the most important rule: your only pleasure is your master’s pleasure. Seek always to please your master, and you may enjoy comfort and pleasure yourself. Think about that, Jasmine, and rest now.”

The developer flipped the catches on the table and tipped its inert passenger forward until her wide brown eyes stared at the floor. He watched as the nurse administered the maintenance purges, and as the black-wrapped attendant exited he dimmed the lights and followed her out of the room.


The girl’s night was filled with vivid dreams. She was a perfumed, silk-clad harem slave, dancing on her toes to exotic music while water tinkled in the palace fountain….

Then suddenly she was in the hot black pits of hell, bound in chains and raped by demons with dicks like baseball bats. She wailed, and begged to be allowed to suck their monstrous cocks instead, but their claws tore her flesh…

No, that was a nightmare-in-a-dream. She awoke from hell to find herself snug in a luxurious bed, lying on her back alongside her snoring master. She felt his sticky come dripping from her yawning mouth and wide cunt, and it felt fine. Then her master rolled over, stealing the blankets. Paralyzed she floated slowly toward the high, ornate ceiling, as though she were filled with helium…


The next morning Jasmine stared upwards, wide-eyed, while the unfortunate nurse tended her. As Twelve rubbed her refilled tits with the warming, softening cream – the nurse used both rubber-gloved hands on each of the basketball-sized glands now – the massaged prisoner hoped her owner would find her modified body attractive and worthy of gentle treatment, perhaps even pampering.

As the bloody gauze was pulled from her mouth and replaced with clean cotton, Jasmine wondered how she should best use her soft gums to please her master, to keep him satisfied and avoid his punishments.

When Ruta led Jasmine to the therapy room, her mouth was still wrapped and stuffed – albeit with a more reasonable quantity of gauze. She still tasted the rubber oral dam and breathed through her nose tube. The now warm plastic cock strapped inside her pressed back and forth uncomfortably as she walked, but she swung her wide hips saucily as instructed.

On the wide padded mat the amazonian therapist showed her stretches and exercises that she could do unaided, to maintain herself after leaving the clinic. Then she bent her charge’s pliant, voluptuous body into unfamiliar positions that – if somewhat strenuous – made her orifices invitingly available.

The retainer-dildo pressed at the walls of Jasmine’s sore, stretched cunt as she strained to arch her body into a bridge, pressing her head and spread knees into the lightly padded mat with her arms splayed limp alongside her. Her huge, heavy boobs were drawn downward by gravity until they shaded her inverted eyes from the overhead lights.

“Higher,” Ruta urged gently. “Wider!” The therapist touched her straining subject’s raised butt and open thighs lightly with a thin, flexible rod. The big dildo jabbed painfully at her aching tunnel but Jasmine struggled to comply, groaning with exertion as she displayed her plugged pussy to the ceiling. What yesterday would have seemed a painful humiliation was today an opportunity to prove and improve herself, and hopefully avoid future suffering.

Jasmine still found the arm exercises frustrating, a painful reminder of how she’d been maimed. At first she worked at them half-heartedly, wondering what use she would ever be able to make of her clipped wings. But she applied herself dutifully after Ruta explained that she might be asked to fondle her master’s balls while she swallowed his loads of spunk, or sucked his ass.

The girl who’d first awakened in the clinic would have considered such acts depraved, and abhorrent. But after weeks of intensive, subliminally charged training Jasmine found nothing objectionable in the suggestions. The notion of rubbing her nose in a funky ass-crack while probing the hidden sphincter with her tongue seemed as innocuous to her now as shaking hands.

While they worked through their routine another therapist led the bitted, armless pony into the room and set her to work on the treadmill again. There were others there, too, toiling under the watchful eyes of their trainers: A tall ebony beauty, her hair in skinny braids and adorned with heavy gold rings in ears, nose, nipples, and privates, was working on an exercise machine. A sheen of sweat covered her dark body as, with legs bound double, she used her toned arms to lift herself up and down on a thick dildo while her green-clad trainer stood by holding a cattle prod.

Nearby a tiny Asian girl struggled with the burden of her enormous breasts as she worked on the padded benches. From the front the fleshy zeppelins hid her torso completely, and together probably amounted to half her body weight. Sometimes the nipples – as big as the girl’s thumbs – brushed the padded floor as their bearer practiced humping large rubber pricks at a variety of angles. The poor thing’s trainer was another Asian female, wiry and flat-chested and not quite as short. She was clad in a snugly tailored burgundy jumpsuit and tall black boots with towering heels. The trainer’s long black hair was pulled back into a pony tail that wagged as she swatted her charge’s elephantine tits with a leather crop.

“Deeper, you worthless cow.” She muttered harshly through clenched teeth, punctuating her words with the crop. “Faster, or we begin again!” The ultrabuxom pixie moaned plaintively as she struggled to obey.

Another trainee, this one a slim blonde being worked out near Jasmine on the exercise mat, made the auburn-haired girl do a double-take. It could have been the twin of a famous pop star – naked, plugged, and twisted into a pretzel on the mat there next to her.

“No nice to stare.” Ruta touched her charge’s cheek gently. Jasmine returned her attention to her own assigned lessons. The other girls were all beautiful, and obviously talented. She became doubtful, feeling a little intimidated. The girl had never thought of herself as attractive, and after the way the clinic and the developer had mutilated her…

But then she recalled that her master had paid a high price for her at auction. She must be attractive, at least in his eyes.

The realization warmed her with hope, and motivation. She would make herself the best pleasure companion she could be! Jasmine was master’s third companion, the developer had said, but she would be his favorite. It was the best hope she had to be treated well – and competition was in her nature.


They concluded the session with a lap around the big therapy room, and Jasmine showed off her increasingly fluid gait. Ruta brushed her thighs with the flexible crop, shortening her stride until she walked with short, quick steps that made her plump curves bounce.

As she rotated her hips the trainee felt the big retainer pressing back and forth inside her, and thought of her new owner’s cock. He must be enormous! Her ride on the HOE had been agony, but maybe her developer had actually done her a favor by preparing her to receive her master’s huge manhood.

The bloated tit-sacs that blocked her view of anything below were, to Jasmine’s own mind, grotesque. But as she walked she tried to make them sway and wobble in rhythm with her mincing steps. She guessed her master would like that, and perhaps be moved to call her to his bed and give her an opportunity to earn a reward. A night in his soft, silk-appointed bed, perhaps, or a real meal of actual food. A hearty soup, maybe, that she wouldn’t have to chew.

Back in her room the budding pleasure doll stepped to the table and turned her back to the mesh without being guided. As Ruta secured the restraining bands the developer entered, trailed by the nurse carrying a tray full of sex toys.

“How was our Jasmine today, Ruta?”

“Oh, very good doctor sir! Jasmine work very hard, learn fast now. Is pleasure to train her.”

After Ruta departed the developer supervised the removal of the gauze that packed the girl’s mouth. It was nearly clean, so he instructed the nurse to remove the dam and nasal tube and clean her face. The ever-smiling doll worked her jaw in relief for a moment, then ran her tongue around her smooth, soft gums. When the nurse presented the mouth-propping face plate and feeder gag she opened unhesitatingly to accept it, and sucked down a bag of salty mush hungrily as the developer stood before her with the tray of toys.

“Pay attention now, Jasmine, we have some new devices to incorporate into your training program.” Speaking slowly, as though to a dimwit, he held up an 8 inch long plastic prod that featured three slight swellings along its length.

“This unit approximates the dimensions of your master’s cock. His is not lumpy like this, of course. Each of these three segments contains a separate pressure sensor.” He tapped the segmented prod as he spoke, illustrating his remarks. “You are to learn how to squeeze each segment individually, so you can please your master by milking his cock. This goes in your ass.”

Next he held up a much bulkier dildo, nine inches long and over two inches wide. It seemed heavy in his grasp, and sprouted both electrical connections and miniature plumbing fittings at its base. “This is for your cunt. Your master will probably never fuck you there but you’re to continue to tone your cunt, so that it doesn’t look sloppy and ugly after the stretching, and so you can grip whatever your master might put in it. We have a series of these and we’ll continue to upsize as your stretching progresses.”

He pointed to the clitty clip and a little nozzle that were mounted at the back end of the dildo. “Besides the larger size this unit has other features different from your old prod…well, you’ll find out. Technical details are no use to silly dollies! Twelve, get her rigged up.”

As soon as the slim masked attendant touched the new prods, Jasmine’s plugged snatch moistened. The developer stepped close to the upright table.

“Today you begin a new training program designed just for you, Jasmine, to help you learn how to please your master. After the training, it’s time for another go-round with the HOE. But if you are very, very good during the training, I’ll give you a pain blocker and you’ll barely know it’s happening. Understand? Good. I’ll be back when the training is complete to check on you and see if you’ve earned your reward.”

As he left, the gasping rubber-clad nurse tipped the captive backwards and replaced the vaginal retainer with the heavy, complicated dildo. The ease with which the large device entered told the girl how much her box had already been stretched. Her ass was still tight, though, and despite a liberal application of lubricant an involuntary whine escaped her as the new segmented prod was worked into place. The nurse exchanged the feeder gag for the training prod, connected a dizzying tangle of color-coded wires and hoses to the many sockets that adorned the trainee’s appliances, and dimmed the lights.

Jasmine looked up at the dark monitor intently. Every muscle and nerve in her body was poised, ready to strive for a high score on the new program. She wanted desperately to win the painkillers her doctor had promised, and also to learn the skills that she knew she must have to earn good treatment from her future master. Her intense focus recalled the manner that – in a previous life – the girl would have adopted as she climbed the high platform to make her final dive in a major meet.

The screen flickered to life to display: “Custom Training Program 1161 – JASMINE 1.0”

Then the familiar voice: “This program will require your strict attention at all times, Jasmine. Follow all instructions and you can avoid punishment, and perhaps earn a reward.”

“Focus your attention in your asshole.” The segment of the prod furthest from the tip buzzed lightly. “When you are ordered to CLENCH 1 you will squeeze this segment, only. If you understand, Jasmine, CLENCH segment 1 now.”

Jasmine tried, but the selective clenching was unfamiliar and she tripped the middle sensor. Small shocks stung her.

“That is incorrect, Jasmine. Since this task is new to you the punishments for failure will begin lightly, though as before they will increase in severity if you do not improve.” The first segment buzzed again. “Try again, Jasmine, CLENCH 1…”

It took the attentive anal student some time to master the complexities of the new device, and the stinging shocks built until grunts of pain forced their way past the faceplate. But she was determined to pass this test, and when she had finally done the CLENCH 1-2-3 combination properly – which had the effect of tugging the spring-mounted prod deeper into her ass – she smiled with pride.

Really smiled – for the first time in her new life, her emotions rose to fill the fixed grin that decorated her crippled face.

“That is satisfactory, Jasmine. Now maintain strict attention as we begin the rotation. Follow all instructions and you can avoid punishment while earning a reward. SUCK…”

The graphic porn videos returned to the screen, interrupted as before by the command words and occasional momentary bursts of static. The willing trainee adapted quickly to the new sophistication required of her ass. As the pace of commands slowly increased, and she matched it, the vibrating clips began to buzz and the big dildo rumbled to life. It not only massaged her as the earlier model had, but seemed to grow as well.

A half hour into the session Jasmine was just holding her own, as the pace of commands leveled off at almost one per second. The swelling dildo now stretched her expanded pleasure tunnel to a point just short of pain. The sophisticated prod had become heavier, as well as wider – its inflating agent was warm water.

Another pop of static on the screen and Jasmine realized that it excited her to be filled to the limit. Her spirits rose – maybe the huge dildo was what she needed to finally achieve release! Green lines wiggled on the brain monitor as she grunted and whined, struggling to keep up the squeezing and sucking that was demanded of her as the pitch of the vibrators rose…

Suddenly the nozzle pointed at her clit puffed a jet of air at the sensitive bud, and her whole body spasmed with the unexpected stimulation. The big, heavy dildo swelled just a bit more, so that she felt twinges of pain now, but the buzzing of the clips mounted and the puffs of air came quickly, driving her to the edge…

“COME, Jasmine.” The puffs turned staccato, and in a moment the green lines fluttered wildly as she bucked and screamed into her mask. Her pussy clamped down on the bloated dildo, adding to her pain as she came for the first time in her captivity, then the second time, then the third……

Finally she lay still and gasping, utterly spent.


Huh? She wasn’t even sure where she was.


The commands…the training wasn’t over…but…

“Aaaaaagh!” The painful shocks again.

“Maintain strict attention at all times, follow instructions and you can avoid punishment. SUCK.”

She’d forgotten rule number one. Her pleasure was secondary; her purpose was to please the master, who at the moment was embodied by the computerized training program. That it had allowed her finally to come did not release her from her duty.

She made the mouth prod click, and struggled to collect herself and focus on the screen…


When the developer returned he found Jasmine laying limp in her bonds, totally exhausted and soaked with sweat. But on the screen he found the word he was looking for: Satisfactory. With quiet words of praise he administered an injection, and even as the hydraulic cunt-stretcher was wheeled between her legs Jasmine flew away to a warm, fuzzy place.


Jasmine’s days took on an orderly routine, unlike the random and uneven schedules that had been designed earlier for the reluctant girl. Maintenance and rubdown in the morning were followed by a training session, a brief rest, a long session in the therapy room, and then more training before she faced the HOE.

The demands of the training program became more and more intense but she battled to meet them, and more often than not managed satisfactory scores. Thanks to her hard work and the developer’s mercy she did not have to face the horrible HOE again without drugs to help her endure it. She was grateful for the narcotic relief, but still felt twinges of dismay as she saw the retainers grow larger after every session.

Her already prodigious tits continued to swell with the regular injections, administered at the end of each day as she lay in a drugged stupor just before being put away for the night. But thanks to twice-daily applications of the skin-softening cream, and her regular exercise, they descended on her chest and lost their rigid, spherical shape. Just a few days after she first rose from the table the softening tits were swaying and sloshing like the liquid-filled bags they were. When she lay on her back now, they oozed off her chest until they rested heavily on her arms. Jasmine guessed their volume must be approaching the 8000cc mark. That was where, her developer had foretold, the final inflation to 10,000cc would take place, and her tits’ liquid filling transformed into spongy, naturalistic foam.

She was becoming quite proficient at milking the anal prod, and her flexibility continued to improve. After her fourth visit to the therapy room Ruta announced that Jasmine had become good enough at walking and performing in the wedge-soled trainers to move up to what she called “ballet pumps.”

These turned out to be narrow, open-fronted golden shoes with towering, skinny heels of black steel. Single straps just below the ankle bound them securely upon Jasmine’s delicate, modified feet. As with the trainers, she walked in this imposing new footwear with her 8 toes pointed straight down, pressed into small gel inserts in the botooms of the shoes. The gel pads distributed the load somewhat, though walking in the pumps remained an uncomfortable affair. The “soles” of the shoes were tiny patches of flat leather beneath her toes, no more than an inch across.

When she first saw them Jasmine doubted she could ever learn to walk in the impractical, dangerous-looking shoes. For one thing, without the support of the bulky trainers she didn’t think her toes could take her weight, to which her ever-growing boobs had added at least thirty pounds. And for another, without the big, rigid ankle straps to keep her feet straight she worried that her first misstep would lead to a broken ankle.

But again she surprised herself. The shoes appeared delicate but were very sturdily made, reinforced with metal and custom fitted so that they held her unnaturally narrow feet firmly. Her toes and ankles proved to be quite strong even without external support – the benefit, she supposed, of having been fixed almost rigidly and surgically reinforced in their “en pointe” positions.

By her third session in them Jasmine was moving nearly as well in the pumps as she had in the trainers. With such tiny areas of contact between shoe and floor balance was very tricky, and she could seldom stand on one foot for more than a moment. Ruta didn’t have to remind her now to shorten her stride. But standing in place – which afforded four points of contact – was not too difficult, even with her feet held close together as Ruta instructed. And once Jasmine became confident in her ability to stay upright on the new shoes, her stride became more gliding. The leather soles of the pumps did not catch on the floor and try to trip her as the rubber-bottomed trainers often had.


As the developer had predicted, the budding pleasure doll’s days did pass more easily since she’d become Jasmine, and stopped resisting her captors. As she continued to work hard and progress in her lessons and exercises, her handlers fed her spirit with encouragement and praise. She soaked it up like a sponge – even if it was delivered somewhat condescendingly, as though she were some dumb bimbo. Every day was filled with new challenges, like the shoes, and the strange contortions that Ruta taught her on the mat. And now Jasmine enjoyed sexual release on a semi-regular basis, too.

She was allowed to come once – or multiple times in a single event – during each training run. Her orgasms were carefully controlled: First she had to perform well enough in the early part of the session to raise the vibrating clamps and heavy, throbbing dildo to a certain pitch. When she’d been brought to a high level of arousal, the thrumming dildo would swell with pressurized water until – no matter how large she’d been expanded by the HOE – she was filled to the point of discomfort. Finally, if she could maintain her own performance upon the various prods, the machine would use the air jets and vibrators to send her over the edge.

But she had to remain focused on her responsibilities. During the introductory run of the new program, the computer had allowed her a break to collect herself after orgasm. But this respite was progressively shortened until she was required to keep up with the regular pace of commands even when in the deepest throes of her own ecstacy. If she failed to do so, her orgasm was cut short by a savage series of shocks.

Neither was she allowed to come until the dildo was fully inflated. If she tried to achieve release earlier in the program, the machine would shock her down as before. After just a few sessions with the new program the girl ceased even to become aroused until the swelling dildo filled her to the point of tension. And soon after that, she began to yearn at all times for the feeling of fullness and weight in her cunt. That sensation told her that she was performing well, and soon to be rewarded.


The door opened with a bang. From her routine Jasmine had expected Ruta and another therapy session, but it was the developer who entered. Behind him Nurse Twelve wheeled a heavy cart.

“You’ve made excellent progress, Jasmine. You should be proud of yourself! I think you’ll make your master very happy, and he’ll treat you well. Now we need to begin the other modifications he’s ordered for you. Don’t be afraid! When you wake up you’ll be prettier and sexier than you ever thought possible, and the perfect girl to best please your master.”

As he spoke the mechanized table slowly spread Jasmine’s legs for her. Nurse Twelve unstrapped and removed the latest retainer, then retrieved from the cart a clear plastic cylinder. Open at the ends and with gently curving edges, the thin-walled cylinder was at least four inches in diameter and close to a foot long. Even after her repeated sessions with the HOE it took both a liberal coating of lube and a generous application of elbow grease by Twelve before it was fully seated in Jasmine’s yawning tunnel.

“The surgeons are going to do as much of your abdominal work as they can arthroscopically, though your vagina, to minimize external scarring. So you see it’s a good thing you started early on the HOE!”

While the nurse started an IV drip line on Jasmine’s left arm, the developer inserted two nasal breathing tubes, then fumbled with more items on the cart. There was a squeak of knobs turning and a hiss of pressurized gas. He removed the gagging prod and face plate. Jasmine licked her lips as her developer held above her face a gray rubber mask that trailed floppy hoses. The hissing sounds came from the mask, along with a faint, sickly-sweet smell.

“Among the many improvements the surgeons are about to make will be some major changes to your mouth and throat. After you wake up it will be difficult, probably impossible for you to speak intelligibly. So if there’s anything you want to say, now would be the time.”

The pleasure doll continued to grin vacantly for a moment. Then she made a little cough, and breathed deeply. Her eyes blinked quickly for a moment, then narrowed just perceptibly from Jasmine’s usual vapid stare.

The girl’s slack lips barely moved as her voice was heard, high and quiet and seemingly from far away.

“Mah naim…wuss deborah.”

“Yes.” The developer paused for a moment, struck by her simple poetry. “Yes, of course it was. Goodnight now, Jasmine.”

He lowered the hissing rubber mask to her smiling face.

Wakeup Call

I have posted this piece here after the Benfanstorybox Yahoo Group folded so that it is not lost.

This is an adult fantasy involving themes of slavery and extreme body modification.  Don’t read it unless such themes appeal to you, and don’t repost anywhere minors might have access.

Wakeup Call

by Benfan

Red stirred slightly as the first rays of morning light glanced across the ceiling.  In a moment she snapped fully awake, a moment of terror briefly knitting her fair brow.  Night time was her time on duty; she had been trained to keep quietly alert throughout the dark hours, and knew immediately that by dozing she’d committed a serious violation.

But it was alright, there was no sharp jolt of electricity this time to remind her of her duty, no trainer’s voice in her ear scolding her.  She was not in training now, but in her master’s firm, wide, silky bed, and it was still very early.  The light filtering through the window was the rosy orange of an hour before dawn.  Not moving her head, she rolled her eyes to glance at the numbers projected on the ceiling above the bed.  05:39 glowed there in white, washed out now by the growing fire of the sunrise, and below it in red, 06:00.  She still had twenty minutes.

But after a moment’s relief she scolded herself, silently.  It had been a busy night, yes, and she might make the excuse of being tired, but she would have plenty of time to nap throughout the day.  She must not allow such breaches of discipline to become habit or she would suffer for it.

Red was laying on her side, facing the window that covered most of the eastern wall of the expansive bedroom, though from the low platform bed she could only see the sky and a few antennas that sprouted from the taller buildings of the great city outside.  In a few hours, when the maid picked her up and set her on her day-stand in the alcove built into the western wall of the room, she would be able to look down through the one-way mirrored glass and watch some of the distant bustle below.  But from the bed there was little view to distract her, only the tastefully austere, Asian-themed hangings on the walls, and on some nights the moon shining brightly through the wide glass wall.

She felt her master’s muscular arm draped heavily across her waist, and his firm pectoral muscles pressed into her shoulder blades.  She felt his cock too, long and chubby and semi-erect, resting in the cleft of her buttocks.  His warm breath caressed the back of her neck.

That neck was badly cramped along one side, from holding her head in this position for what must be hours now with no pillow of her own.  But she’d been conditioned to endure far worse, and such aches were merely a nuisance that did little to distract her from her duty.  It never crossed her mind to turn and stretch, or adjust her position to relieve the pain, or to move a muscle more than was necessary to take quiet, shallow breaths.  Not when she was on duty, and especially with the master so close as to be disturbed by her slightest movement.

Scanning down toward the floor, past the horizon formed by the distant edge of the huge, low bed, she caught a partial view of her bedmate Black Pillow.  The pretty and diminutive Asian girl was named for her shiny, jet-black hair, which was gathered in a leather-bound ponytail that hung behind her when she sat upright on her day-stand.  Now, it draped across her face as she lay on her side on the floor, right where she’d slipped or been tossed a few hours earlier.

In the dim light Red Pillow – that was her full name, chosen to match her own auburn locks….well, not her full real name; she knew she’d had another name at some point, that was no doubt still recorded somewhere, buried in a dust-covered file cabinet in a dark basement archive, probably in the same folder as her death certificate.  But she and her bedmates had been strongly encouraged to forget any previous names, and even the first innocent wanderings of her mind in that direction were halted by memories of hot pain…

In the dim light Red Pillow could see a little residue of last night’s activity, where Black’s hair was plastered here and there to her face by once-sticky goo that had dried now into a white crust.

More crusty spots dotted the white silk of Black’s slipcover, the snug-fitting sheath that covered most of her torso.  Her firm, cupcake breasts protruded through a pair of cutaways in front, piped in silver.  Her light brown nipples stood half-erect in the cool night air.  The bottom of the slipcase was open, fitted along the line where Black’s firm bottom met her lower back and just above her shaved pussy.  Like the breast cutouts the hem of the slipcover was trimmed in silver piping, to match the other bed linens.  Large silvery tassles dangled from the shoulder-corners of the sheath, which was stretched tight over her little torso by a Y-shaped thong; two flat-woven and linguine-thin cords descended to either side of her mons, then met in the cleft behind her anus and rose again up between her cheeks to a knot at the base of the spine.  Red Pillow wore a similar sheath; the main difference was that Red’s slipcase sported a single, large cutaway at the front that exposed most of her chest, the better to accomodate her fuller D-cup breasts.

Beneath the big gaudy tassles the slipcases hid the scars at the shoulder where the pillows’ arms had been amputated, the upper arm bones removed completely from the shoulder sockets and firm plastic knobs set under the skin to give a smooth, rounded appearance.  The tassles were attached sturdily to the body of the sheaths and provided convenient handles by which the pillows could be lifted or handled, either by their master or the maid or others on his staff.  In this event, the pillows’ weight was borne largely by the thin crotch-thong.

The scars along the bottom and sides of their round buttocks were exposed, and despite the careful work of a premier surgeon the faintest lines remained to show where their femurs had been likewise removed, the large gluteus muscles – now purposeless and destined for atrophy – excised and the flesh of the buttocks refilled and rounded with artful silicone facsimiles of perfect, curvaceous asscheeks.  Covering these barely-visible reminders with water- and smear-proof makeup was one of the daily duties of the pillows’ minder, who would visit them later that morning while master was out for the day.

Black Pillow lay dutifully awake; in fact there was little chance that she might doze while she lay sticky and uncomfortable on the hard wooden floor.  But she did not envy the buxom redhead who now lay in relative comfort under their master’s arm – such selfish thoughts had been burned out of the pillows completely.  Their only thought, now, was to their duty.

Black had been concerned when she’d watched Red doze off in the moonlight, seen her eyes close and her breathing turn briefly deeper and slower – if that lapse had been discovered, they all would have paid.  But she had dared not make a sound in the silent night.  Black Pillow was relieved now to see the green eyes of her bedmate open again and casting about, and tilted her head to peer above the edge of the bed and draw her attention.  The two pillows locked eyes, and Black glanced toward the numbers on the ceiling: 05:40, now, and 06:00.  Red followed her gaze briefly, then they locked eyes again and Red blinked her long lashes purposefully.

Yes, I know.

Moments turned to minutes, in silence broken only by their master’s slow, sonorous breathing, while the morning light slowly grew.  Red wondered if Yellow Pillow was in her most frequent position at the top of the bed, laying on her side while the master’s head rested on her huge, spongy breasts.  She assumed as much, since Yellow had been tailored largely to fill that role.  Red recalled how her blonde bedmate had been taken from their room, several times in the weeks after her initial arrival, so that the surgeon could add and remove silicone from her elastic implants in ever-diminishing amounts until her bust was just the right size and firmess to provide their master with the proper support.

Red grimaced for a moment as her stomach cramped, and as her guts churned she fought to hold her body motionless in her master’s embrace.  It had been almost twenty hours since her last servicing, and both her bowel and bladder were uncomfortably full.

Usually, the pillow-minder would arrive about 10:00, shortly after the maid had finished cleaning the room.  In the course of making the bed, the burly Latina housekeeper would lift the pillows onto their day-stands, which looked not unlike black steel barstools with U-shaped padded seats, and close the hinged, padded steel waistbands that made it impossible for them to fall off as they alternately napped and stirred throughout the day.  At night, the stands and the rest of the support machinery were hidden behind a sliding panel that made up most of the west wall of the bedroom, but when the stands were occupied the panel was left open affording the pillows a view out the huge window.

The maid knew to treat the pillows gently, but she often made a show of huffing and puffing at their weight as she manhandled them by their shoulder-tassles, and lifted them onto the stands with a strong, gloved hand under the tailbone.  Yellow Pillow especially brought a stream of Spanish profanities from the maid’s lips, as she struggled with the blonde’s greater weight.  “Que tetas ponderosas!” was a phrase heard often at this point in the morning routine.

When the pillow-minder arrived her first task, after removing the soiled slipcovers and wiping away any excessive fluids or mess, would be to connect the pillows’ purge fittings.  These were a pair of flexible plastic tubes connected to hoses that rose from shiny steel and black plastic machinery at the stands’ bases.  The first, about ten inches long and a little less than an inch in diameter, would be lubed and slowly inserted into a pillow’s rectum, until it engaged a valve implanted in the bowel about an inch beyond the reach of the master’s erect penis.  Then a much smaller, slimmer tube would be greased and slid into the urethra, where it engaged a smaller plastic valve implanted just below the skin.

On most mornings, when the pillows had spent the entire previous day with purge tubes in place, there would be an immediate but moderate flow of urine upon connection, while a small enema was required to get things started in the rear.  But yesterday, the master had come home early and ordered his bed to be prepared before the minder had a chance to administer the second enema, usually given in the early evening.  And so this morning Red’s bowel gurgled impatiently.  She was sure no morning enema would be required, today, and hoped that the minder remembered to double-check the fittings on the drain lines.  The last time they’d been allowed to get so overfilled, Yellow’s urine line had seperated from the machine when her pee had begun to flow, and the pressure generated by her overfilled bladder had made the thin plastic hose wave about like an unmanned firehose, spraying the room (and the minder) with yellow pee!

Of course the resulting mess was in no way the pillows’ fault.  But in her anger the minder had not only denied them their noontime exercise but also, after seeing them properly cleaned up, closed the sliding panel and left them to undergo their regular cycle of purging and feeding in darkness.  This was a heavy punishment for human minds whose only diversion, aside from the pleasure of serving their master, was the view out the big window of the city far below.  Despite the darkness, neither Red nor her bedmates had been able to nap at all that day, so frustrated were they at being deprived of their daily glimpse of the world outside.

Though she would never admit as much, upon her return in the evening to dress and make up her charges the minder had seemed somewhat guilty at her pique.  Whether to make amends, or because she judged it necessary, she had administered a larger than normal dose of the cocktail of antidepressant and mild sedative that helped the pillows to retain a semblance of sanity through the tedium of their daily routine.

Her churning bowel suppressed any desire to eat, but Red Pillow was hungry too, and above the gurgling stuffedness in her lower abdomen an unfamiliar emptiness gnawed at her.  Just as she had missed her afternoon enema the previous day, so had she missed her afternoon meal.  Since about 10:30 the previous morning, all she’d consumed had been a few spoonfuls of her master’s semen, which while delicious and nourishing to her reprogrammed spirit provided little in the way of calories.  She looked forward to when, after purging her body of the previous day’s meal, the minder would slip the hollow feeding gag between her red-dyed, collagen-plumped lips and smooth, toothless gums, and slide the plastic tube down her throat – to avoid any risk of choking caused by the deadening of her gag reflex – then start the pump that would deliver in slow spurts directly to her stomach the pasty gruel that fueled her abbreviated body.  Hopefully, the minder would remember that the pillows had missed yesterday’s supper, and program the machine to deliver a somewhat larger breakfast than was normal.

Red saw Black Pillow, down on the floor, tilt her cum-stained head again to call her wandering mind back to its duty.  Glancing up at the ceiling Red saw the white numbers read 05:58.  Almost time… her head she planned and reviewed how she would fulfill her most important responsibility of the morning.

The moment the white numbers turned to 06:00, matching the red ones, Red Pillow let out the lowest of moans, more of a toned breath really, and wiggled her pelvis a fraction of an inch.  Simultaneously, to the second, she heard and sensed similar efforts being made near the head of the bed – Yellow Pillow was in fact in her usual place, awake and on the job.

Slowly Red’s wiggles expanded until she was rotating her hips an inch or so, which made her master’s cock slide back and forth along the cleft of her round butt.  As she increased the volume of her little moans she felt the member lengthen and swell, but still he did not stir.  She flexed her torso slightly, so that master’s arm slid along her silken sheath and his hand brushed the bottom of her pale breast.

Even as Red Pillow heard Yellow’s ministrations grow in pace with her own, their master’s breaths came slow and regular.  It had been a long night; he had exerted himself fully with them, and could probably sleep for several more hours.  But if, when they did succeed in awakening him, the numbers on the ceiling did not match there would be hell to pay.

Red looked down at Black, who watched with obvious concern but dared not utter a sound.  How many seconds had passed since they had begun to stir – forty?  Fifty?  With a moan that sounded dangerously loud – master hated to be jarred awake – Red Pillow slowly bent her sore, stiff neck, groping with the back of her head the brush her auburn ponytail against the master’s face.  Black’s dark eyes widened.  It was a risky move – Master might awaken with a sneeze, and who knew what that would mean for them.

But just then his hand moved, rotating to cup the full breast that Red offered it.  He cleared his throat, then squinted and stiffened all over, his hand clamping down tight on the white tit.  The powerful, semi-conscious squeeze would leave bright red fingermarks, but Red responded only with a deep moan of pleasure.

Unseen to any of his pillows, a smile grew on the master’s lips as he slowly awakened, his cheek and nose pressed deep into Yellow’s spongy tit.  A quick glance at the numbers on the ceiling caught the change from 06:00 to 06:01.  He turned his head back and forth slowly, to feel the soft, tanned tit-flesh sliding under his stubbled cheek, and across the close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair on the back of his head.  He shifted his grip on Red’s white breast and fingered it more gently now, kneading and stroking.  He bent his neck to sniff her red hair, and grinned at how it tickled his nose.

Red was still turning her hips, more lustily now to show her eagerness to please.  The cock that slid back and forth between her asscheeks was at it’s full nine-inch length now, and hard as oak.

Her master’s hand left her breast and slid slowly down her side, then tightened over the surgically sculpted hip.  Slowly he pulled and twisted, and Red arched her spine in response, making herself available to him.

With his other hand her master guided his rigid prick into Red’s waiting pussy from behind.  The soft lips, fringed in close-cropped rusty down, opened easily for him, but he paused to rub the head of his cock gently against her delicate tissues for a few seconds while she lubricated.  By the time he pressed it home, Red was aflame with anticipation and greeted his penetration with a gasp of pleasure; a flush colored her fair cheeks as she tossed her red head and groaned aloud.

The master gripped Red’s pelvis with both hands, now, and slowly slid her body back and forth on his cock while his own hips rolled back and forth in time.  He turned his face deeper into Yellow’s cleavage, and as he groped with his lips she twisted her torso, offering a pink nipple to his mouth.  Hungrily he sucked it in, licking and nipping and the soft, sweet flesh.

As his ardor grew the master rolled on top of Red, so that he drove into her now from behind and above in a reverse missionary position.  One of his powerful arms pressed into the mattress next to her face; the other hand gripped her auburn ponytail, pulling to keep her from sliding away from him on the silk sheets while he pummeled her and she gasped and moaned between clenched teeth, her chin pressed hard into the silk sheets.

Temporarily out of the action but eager to show her affection, Yellow slowly twisted and squirmed, dragging her heavy tits a foot or two across the mattress until she could lick her master’s fingers.  He responded by stopping his thrusts, shifting his weight and taking a firm grasp on one of her shoulder tassles.  With one strong tug he dragged Yellow’s torso three feet across the sheets, so that she lay face up with her head pointed toward the foot of the bed.  Then his strong hands gripped Red at the shoulder and hip, and lifted her on top of Yellow with her head still toward the bed’s head.  Yellow’s spongy overfilled breasts pressed up against the front of Red’s hips now, supporting the latter’s arched-back posture.

Satisfied with this arrangement the master rocked forward on his knees and entered Red Pillow again, with no hesitation this time, and she gasped and flushed once more as her tight, sopping pussy took his full length in one stroke.  Rocking back and forth he gripped Red’s hips and pistoned her with deep, slow strokes while his shaved balls dangled above Yellow Pillow’s face.  The latter reached upward with her tongue to them, tickling and licking before taking the egg-sized glands into her mouth – first one, then the other, then both at the same time which made her tanned cheeks bulge comically.  As the master settled into a rhythm Red Pillow tipped her head down and began to lap at Yellow’s fuzzy cleft.

For some minutes this went on…it would have been for longer but the master had an early appointment that morning. “Bring me off now,” he said simply.

Lifting her moistened nose from her bedmate’s pussy, Red grimaced with effort as she alternately clenched the muscles of her own box in time with her master’s strokes.  She was well trained, and if he closed his eyes he could imagine it was a talented hand down there, jerking him off.  But the only hands in this bedroom were his own.  It only took a dozen such strokes to bring him near the edge…

Withdrawing suddenly the master put his feet under him, and grasped a ponytail in each hand.  As he stood in the middle of the firm bed he lifted the pillows with him, Red to the left and Yellow to the right, until they sat balanced on their double-round bottoms.  Glaring out through the mirrored glass at day breaking over his city, he twisted their hair in his hands so that they turned to face his throbbing cock, their clefts rubbing against the silk sheets as they spun.  Holding them upright by the hair the master pulled his pillows’ faces to his groin and took turns driving his prick between their plump lips, first to the left, then the right, then back again.

Finally he laced his hand into the hair atop Yellow’s head and tipping it forcefully back pushed her face under him to suck his balls again.  With the other hand still gripping Red’s ponytail he pulled her head towards him, so that his cock bulled its way past her glottis and down her open throat.

Quickly Red swallowed, again and again and again, massaging his glans with the muscles of her throat while her nimble tongue flickered over the underside of his prick.  As his fingers tightened in her hair, she knew he was so close….but he had cum three times the night before and would not be rushed.  Her fair face flushed, then turned purple as her lungs screamed for air, but her well-trained throat and mouth never slowed their efforts – at this point her master’s orgasm was her only route to another breath.  Red’s eyes teared, then began to roll back in her head….

At last he grunted, and groaned, and she felt the spatter of his ejaculate against her throat.  She slowed now, as the light began to fade….but her master was merciful, and did not prolong her agony.  He pulled her face off of him with a pop! and sprayed his last few drops across her green eyes as she gasped for breath.

When he was spent the master let his pillows gently down to the bed, as he sank himself to his knees and breathed heavily for a moment.

At last he roused himself, stood, and stepped off the bed.  Donning a robe he looked down at Black Pillow, still laying quietly on the floor and bearing the stains of his previous night’s satisfaction.

“Not a very comfortable night for you, I suppose,” he said lightly and half to himself.  Bending down he lifted the tiny and truncated Asian by her tassles and set her on the silken bed next to her mates.  “There you go.”

Without another word he was out the door of the bed chamber, off to begin his own routine with a shower, then a coffee on the balcony overlooking his city.  It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Strewn haphazardly and stickily across the tussled silk sheets, his pillows watched the heavy, dark door close behind him.  They missed him already.

Fit for the Emperor

I have posted this piece here after the Benfanstorybox Yahoo Group folded so that it is not lost.

[This is an erotic body modification fantasy inspired by the old Chinese practice of foot binding. It is 100% fantasy and not intended as a historical or cultural treatise of any kind.  All characters in all my work are 18 years of age or over.]

Fit for the Emperor

by Ben Fann

It was still nearly dark when May’s eyes fluttered open. Today was a big day, a milestone in her life, she hoped, and she was too excited to sleep. But she had to wait patiently until the designated waking hour, as she was unable to get out of bed until her maid arrived to loosen her restraints. Her eager young heart beat rapidly in her chest, but she had learned patience over the course of years lived in bondage. As the light grew her brown eyes scanned absently about the ceiling of her bed chamber, scanning the white plaster and dark beams above that she already knew so well.  Her mind darted ahead to the trials she looked forward to later in the day, when she hoped to complete her apprenticeship.

The Sun was still below the walls of the closed, tile paved courtyard that May’s little window looked out on when her maid arrived, bearing a nest of wooden pails and a tray loaded of textiles and other items. The plain, neatly dressed, middle aged woman had tended May for years now, but the girl she served did not know her name. Though she was descended of peasant stock like the older woman, once May had been selected for training as a concubine she was considered to have moved up in class, and was not supposed to become familiar with servants who were now ranked beneath her.

The maid began by removing the pegs that held the slim girl’s bed in a slightly inclined position.  The bed was a sturdy board 20″ wide, sanded smooth and covered with a thin layer of silk. The board pivoted below May’s hips as the head end was lowered until it was level with her feet, and she sighed into her padded leather gag as pressure eased on her jaw and neck. The maid slid out a dowel below May’s chin that held her neck in the padded wooden yoke; the bulky restraint bore a portion of her weight as she slept.  Throughout the night her body tried down the slight incline on the nearly frictionless silk, tensioning her neck in the yoke. The leather gag was not intended to keep May silent, but to distribute part of the load from her jaw to her skull, and thence to her spine. For the first few weeks the discomfort of this restriction had made it impossible to sleep, but her young body had adapted and the arrangement now seemed quite natural.

The dowels across her ankles were slid out, and the older woman lifted May’s silk wrapped foot.  She began bending her long white legs this way and that, stretching out the sinews that had tightened during her night in bondage. She worked slowly and carefully, in ritualistic fashion, but pushed hard enough that the girl moaned softly against the tension. With each round of repetitions more flexibility returned, until the maid was able to flex the girl’s legs more than 90 degrees to each side of her body, and press her ankles up alongside her ears.

Finally May was allowed to sit upright. As she rose her firm, curved buttocks pressed down into the hollows that had been carved into the sleeping board to cradle her bottom, and prevent her feminine curves from being flattened during the night. Another carved indentation accommodated her arms, which were bound with long strips of silk high behind her back. The board had been shaped especially for May to fit every curve, and train her body to the proper posture while she slept.

May’s legs were swung to dangle off the board with her toes just touching the cool tile floor. Her maid placed both hands on either side of the the younger woman’s head and twisting the neck left and right, forward and back, working out the stiffness. Hundreds of nights in the yoke had gently stretched May’s neck an inch longer than it had been when she had begun her training, giving her an ethereally graceful look.

How fortunate she had been, May reflected, to be spotted that day in the market by her Master, and bought away from her poor family to live a new life where she had been made beautiful beyond a simple girl’s dreams, and where servants tended to her every need!

With the kinks in her neck worked out, May took her breakfast.  The maid fed her, a spoonful at a time, from a cup of thick rice porridge laced with herbs that would maintain her health.  The gruel was heartier than was usual, flecked with tiny bits of salt-cured pork that May rarely tasted; no doubt the kitchen had been advised that she would need all her strength today.

When the cup was empty the older woman wiped the corners of May’s mouth with a soft cloth, then stepped back.  Familiar with the morning ritual, May rose to her toes and shuffled with tiny steps, unsteadily at first as she shook off the night’s idleness, to sit on a V-shaped stool near the center of the room.  She sat with thighs aligned on the split seat, so that her knees were spread immodestly.  The maid slipped off the flimsy silk night shift, exposing the younger woman’s body completely but for the tight white bandages that bound her waist, feet, and shoulders.

The silent attendant leaned over her and began unwrapping the wide loops of silk that circled the girl’s waist. May had worn wrappings like this almost constantly since her training had begun, re-wrapped more tightly after each time they were removed for hygiene or other duties. Over the years the soft bindings had reduced her naturally slim figure to the point that a large man could, with two hands, nearly touch his thumbs and forefingers together around her waist. For a time the waist wrap had been boned with strips of rigid bamboo, to prevent her organs from bulging outwards under the constriction and giving her an unsightly tummy, but as her body shifted internally the boning became unnecessary and more flexible wraps were used to allow her greater freedom of motion.

Dropping to her knees the maid slid a wooden bucket beneath the girl.  In front of her face, and below a small black triangle of neatly trimmed pubic hair, the red bud of May’s clitoris thrust outward boldly. Its sheath had been trimmed away, and a golden ring circled its base, the diameter carefully chosen to restrict blood flow and keep the tiny organ constantly engorged and at peak sensitivity. A tiny golden bar passed through the ring – and the base of the firm nub within – holding it in place.

The fleshy slot that extended below the bold red clit was hairless, and sleek. The apprentice concubine’s inner labia had been trimmed away, when early on she had shown unusual sensitivity in this area and been unable to devote the proper focus to her duties during intercourse training. The pain from this procedure, dulled only by acupuncture and a tall cup of rice wine that had made May’s head spin, had been excruciating. But the resulting wounds, like those inflicted when her clit sheath had been trimmed, were now long healed and she was pleased to see her privates look so neat and taut.

Moisture glistened from the bottom of the clean slit and the tops of the girl’s inner thighs; the maid quickly wiped it away with a soft towel.  It was like this every morning, ever since a series of acupuncture treatments that lanced May’s groin with dozens of steel needles had triggered the lubricating glands of her pussy.  The needles were a memory now, but she remained constantly wet inside and required toweling two or three times a day to prevent soaking through her garments.

The squeezing and shifting of her organs beneath the corseting wraps had given May a striking hourglass silhouette, but had side effects: her bowel was so pinched and twisted that she could no longer evacuate without special assistance.  Still on her knees between May’s spread legs, the maid now gently inserted the curved, finger-wide tip of a heavy brass cylinder a few inches into her snug anus. Pushing the plunger at other end of the device she slowly pumped nearly a quart of soap laced water into the girl, bringing a quiet moan from her lips.  When it was fully empty she slid the plunger out, only to replace it immediately with a stopper of carved ivory that swelled outwards near the tip filling May’s rectum, while a brass ring dangled from the exposed end.

Giving the enema a few minutes to work, the attendant began to scrub the girl’s torso with a coarse wet sponge, exfoliating any dry skin in order to maintain the translucent beauty of youth.  Moving slowly upwards, she paid special attention to May’s round breasts, scrubbing vigorously to remove every dead cell and keep the girl’s bosom perfect, soft and white. This was not too uncomfortable for the young concubine, as her breasts had been largely desensitized by years of special treatment. First, her perky little breasts had been wrapped in bandages soaked in herbal medicines. These had itched terribly and caused a hot sensation in her chest, but over months of repeated treatments she understood their purpose as her breasts swelled from bare handfuls into firm globes that her maid could barely cover with both hands.

Unfortunately the herbal treatments had also stained the fair skin of her bosom, turning it a blotchy tea-brown. When the Master had been satisfied with her size, her maid had taken to scrubbing her bosom daily with a paste made from ground sea shells and laced with some kind of sap or juice, the odor of which had burned May’s nose. These scrubbings had at first been agony, as the gritty paste scraped away the stained skin while the noxious additive burned into her flesh. Her breasts had still been taut and swollen – which they remained to this day, to a degree – and felt like melons sliding under her skin as the maid worked them with her knobby peasant’s hands. But after several months the tea stained skin had been scrubbed and bleached away, and May’s bosom was whiter and softer than it had ever been. Most of the nerves in her bosom had been destroyed by the aggressive bleaching, though, depriving her of sensation in the skin of her breasts and making them feel like unnatural growths on her body, more like weighty ornaments than really parts of her.  Even her nipples, which were soft and rosy-pink after being scrubbed along with the rest of her breasts, had been deadened. Her buds had been pierced and pinched with gold, much like her clitoris, so that they remained erect at all times. But unlike her clitty they were nearly senseless, like rubbery buttons on her clothing.

May regretted the loss when she recalled it, but it all seemed a small price to pay for her improvement in status.

The maid could see her charge’s abdomen beginning to spasm as the soapy water did its work, and setting her sponge down to one side reached under and slowly pulled the ivory anal plug downwards by its dangling ring.  In a moment, spurts of chunky brown liquid splashed down into the high sided bucket, accompanied by little grunts from the young concubine.

When she was satisfied that the girl had been fully evacuated, the attendant washed and dried her bottom with towels.  Then she picked up another brass plunger, and flushed first the neatly trimmed pussy, and then the tight anus, with rose scented water.  Drying the suspended bottom one last time, she dropped the towels used in this operation into the bucket and set it outside the door to the small chamber.  It was only a moment before a lower ranking servant could be heard scurrying along the hall to take it away.

Dropping again to her knees the maid took May’s foot in her hands and began to unwind the long strips of silk that bound it. Wrap after wrap fell to the floor in a heap of gauzy loops, until the night splints were revealed. Thin slats of bamboo ran down the slim lower leg, both in front and behind, from mid calf to just above the toes.  They were shaped to fit snugly, and with cutouts to cup the heel. The splints held May’s feet at extreme extension, with her feet pointing straight down in line with her shins. So long had her feet been bound this way that the tendons and muscles of her lower legs had tightened so that, even when the splints were removed to tend to her hygiene, she could not wiggle her feet more than a few degrees away from their vertical position.

With the splints removed the maid unwound the thinner layer of gauze that protected May’s white skin from the hard bamboo, until her feet and ankles were revealed. The feet were of normal length but unnaturally narrow, the tight bindings having forced over the years the long bones of the foot into a bundle rather than running side-by-side in the same plane. The two outer toes had been dislocated and folded back and under, where they had atrophied over the years into small vestigial buttons. The three largest toes were bent back at a right angle from the foot affording her, when she stood, a few square inches of contact with the ground upon which to balance.   May thought her feet, when exposed, were ugly, and as always was happy when after washing them with soap and water from the bucket, trimming her nails and powdering the ghostly white skin, the maid wrapped them up again in day booties of plain white silk and hid them from view.

When both feet had been tended and rewrapped in clean bindings the maid began sponging May’s legs, scrubbing these as vigorously as she had the torso to remove any loose skin and maintain her flawless glow, like the finest porcelain.  When the scrubbing was done she dried the girl carefully with a soft towel, then spent several minutes rubbing a variety of herbal creams into every inch of fair, soft skin.

What a blessing, to be pampered so!

At last the maid stood and performed a similar treatment of scrubbing and moisturization to May’s doll-like face, though more gently and with smaller pots of different creams formulated especially for the face. The young woman’s remarkable beauty – the sculpted cheekbones and delicate chin, the unusually large eyes, the button nose – was natural, and a main reason why the master had sought to buy her from her parents. May’s face had been enhanced only by some light bleaching that had spared most of her nerves here, and maintained by strict avoidance of the Sun.  Her lips were stained regularly with a red herbal dye; the formula also caused her lips to swell slightly which helped conceal the hollow look caused by the removal of her teeth.

At a gesture from the maid May opened her mouth, so that the attendant could clean her soft, pink gums and around the inside of her mouth with a small brush.  She gently grasped the pink tongue by the large golden bead that filled a piercing near the tip and drew it out to be scrubbed; the organ stretched to unusual length after many long sessions of special exercises performed with lead weights dangling from the piercing.  Then, after a rinse of fresh, herb infused water, the maid moved behind the V-shaped stool and began to unbind May’s hair.

This was unusual, as May’s hair was usually washed and rebound weekly, but this was a big day and she would get the full treatment. When the pins and clips were removed and her braids worked out, her jet black tresses hung to the upper curves of her round bottom. Bending forward she allowed the maid to wash and wring her hair over a large pail. Then came long minutes of brushing, with May wincing now and then as the maid worked out knots in her careful but purposeful fashion. Finally the long hair was wrapped into a towel atop May’s head to dry.

The maid began now to unwind the long strips of cloth that bound May’s hands up between her shoulder blades. The strips that extended from her hidden fingers up and around her shoulders were slipped off, releasing the tension, but her arms did not drop. After years bound this way the tendons had hardened so that her arms’ natural position was twisted behind her, elbows nearly touching and hands flat against her back between the shoulders, with palms out.

Slowly the maid unwound the wrappings that cocooned May’s hands, and extended up her bent arms nearly to the shoulder. Prevented by the ossified joints from flexing her arms to the front of her body, May would never see her hands again, and it was just as well. Years ago her thumbs had been dislocated, pressed hard into her palms, and bound there; the tight bindings had led to the thumbs and the rest of her hands atrophying into small, mishapen clubs. The muscles of her arms had likewise deteriorated in their perpetual bondage, so that even the tiny maid could close her hand completely around her charge’s bony upper arm.

Sometimes, when memories flashed of playing childrens’ games in the fields with her young friends many years ago, or of brushing her own hair, May felt pangs of dismay. But they always passed quickly, overruled by pride in her new, elevated role as one who depended on servants for her every need.

The nameless maid sponged the withered limbs clean, then massaged them vigorously to provoke a flow of fresh blood. May whined as her twisted limbs made prickly complaints upon being awakened from their long sleep. She wished this part of the ritual was unnecessary, and that her now useless arms could just be bound up permanently. But the maid knew the occasional relief and massage were necessary to prevent the onset of potentially lethal gangrene.

When she was done, she powdered the sickly white flesh and wrapped the arms again, then began fitting May’s undergarment. This was a snug sheath of fine, shiny silk, intricately embroidered white-on-white and nearly matching her fair skin. It was sleeveless, without armholes even, and served to hide the girl’s bound arms. These were so thin, in fact, folded so carefully and pinned so close behind her body, that when wearing the cutaway sheath she appeared from most angles actually to be armless.

The undergarment was short, cut high above May’s flaring hips with a dangling flap that extended just low enough to hide the bald slit of her pussy. The front was cut away, so that the fair skin from May’s neck to the bottom of her rib cage was exposed, but the light bindings constricting her midsection were concealed under the fine embroidered silk. Hidden laces drew the garment tight around her tiny waist; the twin hemispheres of her bare white breasts jutted forward through the cutaway front of the sheath, tipped with pink and flashes of gold.

May had already been fitted for a number of modest dresses appropriate for wear about the house, in a rainbow of colors suited to each season, heavily embroidered and trimmed in golden thread.  How excited she’d been to model each of them in turn for the tailor and their Master, her tiptoed feet moving quickly inside the narrow, ankle length skirts with delicate steps a few inches long while her upper body glided ethereally to and fro, just as she’d been trained.  But she would perform today’s trials in the undergarment alone, just as she would serve her future master in his private chambers.

The attendant unwound the towel that confined May’s hair, which was now dry, and brushed it out once again before beginning to rebraid and rebind it. The eager young mind of the apprentice concubine wandered while the maid worked, from excited visions of what life would be like when she was finally sold and taken away from the House of Concubines by her new master, to nervously reviewing the exercises she would soon have to perform to prove that she was ready.

By the time the maid was finishing the braiding and winding of May’s dark tresses, the sunbeam shining through the little window had moved several tiles across the floor, and the quiet of morning given way to the distant bustle of city life outside the courtyard walls. Finally May felt the last long pins slipping in, that held her coiled black hair in an intricate design piled high upon her fair head. Stout braided loops dangled to either side just below her ears, providing firm grips while the tall coiffure accentuated her long, delicate neck.

Outside in the hall, May heard firm male footsteps followed by a patter of female servants. Her pulse rose as they approached, and when they stopped outside her door she knew before the latch was raised that the time to prove herself had come…


This work has helped inspire the following stories by me:

A Red Guard’s Tale


St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies: Part 1

St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter

Author’s foreword:

Before you read this story all about the trials and tribulations of young Jessica Fitzgerald, I want you to know that it was inspired by the work of my long-term collaborator and fellow writer Cafterhomme. In his ongoing epic work ‘Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice’ which is itself, inspired by the story that we co-wrote, ‘An Artist’s Masterpiece’ which was, in turn, inspired by my story ‘Doll Wife: The Tale of Charity Clayhanger’. In Chapter 25 of his story, the heroine, Hope, meets a number of fellow Ladies of Leisure including a young lady named Audrey. Although only a bit player in the scene, Audrey caught my attention and I wanted to explore her form of the Leisure Ideal more. The result is this story.

It is not necessary to be familiar with Cafterhomme’s Audrey before reading this tale, but if you are, a word of warning. Jessica is not Audrey and vice-versa. Cafterhomme’s tale is set sometime around the 2040s. This is in the 1960s making it contemporary with my ‘The Tale of Anastasia’. However, the school that Jessica attends is the same as that where Audrey was educated. Jessica is the prototype of the form that Audrey has reached eight decades and many technological advances later. For fans of Audrey, Jessica is a history lesson. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Thanks to Cafterhomme for his support, suggestions and editing for this piece. Thanks also to the great new writer and artist on the scene, Slothargy, who has also engaged with the process.

Dave Potter 16/02/20



The sun blazed overhead, drenching the entire garden in warmth and light. Jessica looked across at Stephen and he looked back. Although not a word was said, a message passed between them. A message of fire and love. She gracefully rose from her chair, turned to Lady Jane and said, “Mother, I feel a little fatigued. I’m going to lie down awhile.”

“It’s perhaps the sun, darling,” replied her lady mother with a smile.

Five minutes later, Stephen O’Leary also rose from his chair and, with a bow to his hostess, walked away.

The slight knock on the bedroom door was answered by a whispered, “Come in!”

He entered to find the object of his desires lying naked on her bed, divested of all her clothes save for her stays. His rod stood rampant and firm. Fervently, he undressed as he surveyed her golden locks, the smoothness of her thighs, the firmness of her pert young breasts and her piercing, captivating cornflower blue eyes.

They lost themselves in a realm of pleasure.

So lost were they in fact, that they never heard the knock on the door, nor its tentative opening.

“Miss Jessica! Mr. O’Leary! What on earth are you doing?”

Unfortunately, they both heard that. Indeed, they would never forget it for the rest of their lives.


Chapter 1

“What on earth are we to do?” cried Lady Jane Fitzgerald, Baroness of Tamworth. “That my own daughter, Jessica of all people, should be caught with that… that bog dweller, whom we invited into our home, defiling her own bed and the honour of her family. How can we ever live it down and how can we ever salvage her reputation? She was due to come out this season and yet who would consider her now, sullied as she is? Oh, it would have been better if I or her father were to have found them; things could have been kept hushed up then… perhaps, but for it to have been the Duchess of Shrewsbury of all people and servants too! Within hours the entire county and beyond was gossiping and giggling. It is beyond hope, Helen, truly it is beyond all hope! We are shamed! My dear, we are completely shamed!”

Her friend, Lady Helen Berkhamsted smiled at her distraught friend. She would have comforted her with a hug but, since she had embraced the Leisure Ideal following her marriage to Lord Berkhamsted, this was now impossible. Indeed, it was at moments like this that she missed her former brachial freedom, although overall, she knew the change to have been a worthwhile one. Her reputation and standing had gone through the roof and she was now invited to all the choicest gatherings and continually complimented on her bound state. Being unable to put an arm around an old friend was a small price to pay. But, wishing to show that she cared, she leaned in, resting her head on Lady Jane’s shoulder and the gesture was appreciated. “You’re too kind,” sobbed the distraught mother of the shamed Jessica.

“All is not lost, Jane,” whispered Helen to her old classmate from Miss Hadley’s Academy for Girls. “There is a solution. It is extreme, that I do grant, but it could work.”

Lady Jane sat up and looked her friend in the eyes. “I would try anything, anything whatsoever to restore our family honour!”

“Jessica would not like it. She will resist.”

“That wanton hussy has lost all right to an opinion on the matter. She has created this catastrophe and must bear all the consequences. But, pray, tell me, what is this solution you speak of?”

“A school. It has only been established for a few years and it employs pioneering methods. My friend in Dublin, the Baroness of Athlone, wrote about it to me in a letter. It seems that she has sent her eldest there. The girl was quite headstrong and something of a troublemaker. She was astounded at the girl they returned to her: obedient, graceful and extremely pious.”

“It is a Catholic establishment?”

“Naturally. I am fully aware that you, like me, adhere to the True Faith. Using the mercy and grace of God, they specialise in transforming the lost daughters of Eve. They can restore a reputation through the power of prayer… and some more worldly techniques.”

“I am intrigued! As I said, I would try anything!”

“Then why don’t you, His Lordship and Miss Jessica accompany me tomorrow on the Holyhead Mail for a trip to visit the Baroness of Athlone… and St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies…?”

Chapter 2

I’ll take over now. It’s my story after all. I don’t have the freedom to do as many things as I’d like these days, but telling my own tale is one that I will not give up. Even if someone else is actually writing it down.

So, as you’ve probably already guessed, my name is Jessica. Jessica Fitzgerald. Seventeen years old, pretty (or so they say) with cornflower blue eyes and golden hair. The classic beauty and didn’t I know it. I was on holiday from the boarding school I attended and where I was due to attend again after the summer break. Where I did passably well and was being prepared, in a rather lackadaisical and half-hearted manner, for my entry into society where my parents were desperate to marry me off. I was not keen on the idea, not because I didn’t like boys – I very much did – but because I didn’t like the ones that they were inclined towards. In fact, I only liked one and I really liked him. He was a penniless Irish tutor who was teaching my younger brother all the things that he should have learned at school. My parents had accepted him because he was cheap and came from a Catholic orphanage. It gave them brownie points with the Church.

The Church, yes, the Church. I should mention them. Not the Established Church but the True Church, the Roman, Catholic and Apostolic Church. I am a Catholic. I had no say in the matter being baptised as soon as I was born and never had the opportunity to think otherwise. We’re an old Catholic family you see, recusants, one of those brave clans that withstood all that Henry VIII, Elizabeth I and all the other Protestant heretics could throw at us. I know all about it; it had been drilled into me since I can remember. So, yes, I am Catholic, even though I was never particularly religious and certainly not attracted to either martyrdom nor the ideal of chastity.

Which is not good for a Catholic girl as you shall see.

But I digress. I am Catholic and I was on an unannounced trip to the most Catholic place of them all. The Vatican? Not at all! Jerusalem? Not on your nelly! Lourdes? You must be joking! No, Ireland. Bloody Ireland, the dullest, most controlled and stick-in-the-mud place in Europe.

And not only that, but the “treat” for the day was a trip to St. Brigid’s. No one even told me what this St. Brigid’s was, just that “they do some marvellous work”. I guessed that it was some sort of religious charitable institution that had smelt our titles and wallets and wanted some cash. An orphanage or home for single mothers perhaps. I was not wrong, except that this was a school. A horrible, stiflingly pious school with pictures of the Sacred Heart or Bleeding Heart everywhere and a crucifix above every bed in the dorms. My school was bad but I was glad that I wasn’t going to this one.

None of the students were there due to it being the holidays, but some of the staff were about. We were shown to the headmistress’s office and she gushed over my parents sycophantically, going into raptures about the school’s “radical new methodology” and “ability to inspire piety in wayward young ladies”. I half-listened with a smile, but my mind was on Stephen and I wondered how he was faring now that he’d lost his tutoring role. I hoped that he wasn’t undergoing any hardships because of me.

“And you, young lady,” said the headmistress, turning to me. “You are a pretty one. How old are you?”

“Seventeen, ma’am,” I answered, primly.

“A dangerous age, a dangerous age indeed. And pray, Miss Jessica, how are you finding your school life?”

“I enjoy it, ma’am,” I lied. “I take pleasure in learning.”

“Which is as it should be and which is precisely the attitude of the young ladies here at St. Brigid’s. I am pleased to hear it. Now, your father has been telling me of your piety which is admirable, and the Angelus is about to ring for noon. I have some important matters to discuss with your parents and so why don’t you let Sr. Catherine here escort you to our chapel so that you may pray whilst we have our boring chat.”

I nodded and curtseyed. So, I’d been correct: they were after money and this was the crucial “How much?” negotiations. Still, I didn’t need to witness it and whilst reciting the Angelus was not really top of my list of things to do, it was preferable to that. Besides, I had to behave in order to get back into their good books after the infraction with Stephen. So, I followed the grey-robed sister down some corridors and prayed the devotions when the bell rang. After we had finished, she returned me to the headmistress’s office but, to my surprise, my parents and Lady Helen Berkhamsted were no longer there.

I looked puzzled at the headmistress and she bade me sit down. “Now Miss Jessica, we may be straight with one another now that your parents have left us. I know all about your shame and sin and I know full well that your piety is an act. However, you need not worry. In this establishment we pride ourselves on erasing shame and sin and enforcing piety. The Gates of Heaven will be open to receive you when that glorious hour comes, Jessica Fitzgerald, for we will give you the key. Welcome to St. Brigid’s; you have just been enrolled as a pupil here!”

Part 2

A Red Guard’s Tale: Part 3

Part 2

Part Three

May 1972

How long I stayed in that crate on that train I do not know. I slept and I woke, slept and woke again. The worst thing was the gnawing thirst in my belly. I had not been fed since my packaging.

Eventually, one time I woke, and the train’s rhythm had stopped. Instead, it was replaced by people manhandling the crate. Indeed, that was what had awoken me. I heard voices saying, “Careful there! This is for the Chairman!” I was tempted to shout out but restrained myself. What good could come of it? Was I not lucky to be alive?

Although was being immured in a vase for life really being alive?

I was carried some distance and then set down. Then all fell quite for a few seconds before a rush of light came in. the top of the crate had been levered off and the daylight hurt my eyes. Soon, the sides too came off and the packing was cleared away. By now my eyes had adjusted and I could see my new home.

I was in a room about ten metres square. It was sparsely but expensively furnished. To my left and my right were double doors. Flanking the doors on my left were two hanging scrolls. On both of them were written poems. The first was entitled ‘Changsha’ and its words read as follows:

Alone I stand in the autumn cold

On the tip of Orange Island,

The Hsiang flowing northward;

I see a thousand hills crimsoned through

By their serried woods deep-dyed,

And a hundred barges vying

Over crystal blue waters.

Eagles cleave the air,

Fish glide in the limpid deep;

Under freezing skies a million creatures contend in freedom.

Brooding over this immensity,

I ask, on this boundless land

Who rules over man’s destiny?

I was here with a throng of companions,

Vivid yet those crowded months and years.

Young we were, schoolmates,

At life’s full flowering;

Filled with student enthusiasm

Boldly we cast all restraints aside.

Pointing to our mountains and rivers,

Setting people afire with our words,

We counted the mighty no more than muck.

Remember still

How, venturing midstream, we struck the waters

And waves stayed the speeding boats?

The poem on the right was entitled ‘Swimming’. It read:

I have just drunk the waters of Changsha

And come to eat the fish of Wuchang.

Now I am swimming across the great Yangtze,

Looking afar to the open sky of Chu.

Let the wind blow and waves beat,

Better far than idly strolling in a courtyard.

Today I am at ease.

‘It was by a stream that the Master said

‘Thus do things flow away!’ ‘

Sails move with the wind.

Tortoise and Snake are still.

Great plans are afoot:

A bridge will fly to span the north and south,

Turning a deep chasm into a thoroughfare;

Walls of stone will stand upstream to the west

To hold back Wushan’s clouds and rain

Till a smooth lake rises in the narrow gorges.

The mountain goddess if she is still there

Will marvel at a world so changed.

Flanking the doors to my right were two more screens. These however, portrayed scenes, the left-hand one a vista of mountains, the right-hand a rocky river gorge. They were beautiful. On the floor of the room was lain a beautiful rug depicting dragons.

My attentions however, we taken up, not by the screens, nor even the rug. Instead, I could not take my eyes off the large vase which stood across the chamber from me, directly in my eyeline.

This vase was identical to the one that I was imprisoned within.

And emerging from the top was a human head.

Or at least, I thought it was. It seemed to be but it was hard to tell as it was covered by a beautiful ceramic mask. Crafted out of white porcelain, it depicted a classical beauty asleep. Crowning the mask was an elaborate hairstyle that reminded me of the ones I had been forced to wear when playing in the operatic troupe depicting the courtesans of the olden days.

After the workmen had left and I was all alone, silence descended. Almost. I could hear faint breathing coming from the vase. Behind that mask there was a person! And they were asleep.

I stayed staring for an hour or more in the silence, trying to adjust myself to my new reality. My brain could not take in what had happened; I was still in shock. I read the poems several times over. ‘Who rules over man’s destiny?’ asked the poet in ‘Changsha’. ‘Who rules over my destiny?’ I wondered as I read the words.

Two women came into the room. They were dressed in an austere uniform and had stern faces. The younger of the two went over to the masked figure and removed the face covering. Underneath was revealed a young lady of about my age of stunning beauty with alabaster skin. She woke as the mask was removed but said nothing. The younger maid cleaned her face with a flannel.

The older maid stood before me and said, “You are the new Vase Maiden then. Hmm… a pretty one… as they always are. She will explain the rules to you later, but for now, just remember this one: no speaking at all when I or Liu or anyone else is present. Blink your eyes, Vase, if you understand.”

I blinked.

“Good. You are an enemy of the people and it is only due to the boundless mercy and goodness of our beloved Chairman that you are still alive and being granted this opportunity to redeem yourself and serve the revolution. Remember that, Vase!”

I blinked again.

“Now, let’s get you fed.”

She held a soup bowl up to my mouth and slowly started emptying it down my throat. The taste was exquisite and, after so long without any food, it was heavenly. But it was over too quickly, and my stomach still ached. Then came a small cup of jasmine tea. Once that had gone, my face was flannelled as the other girl’s had been and then my teeth were cleaned. Then, to my surprise, she took out a make-up set and started working on my face, powdering it and then attending to my lips, eyelashes and brows.

By this time the other maid had finished with the other Vase Maiden and came over to me. She went behind my vase and started combing out my hair, adding extensions and forms to it and then wrapping it around those forms. This took considerable time and, when she had finished, it was tight and pulled at my scalp. Added to this, it was heavy and so I tried to twist my neck to relieve the pressure, although the wooden “collar” around the top of the vase made this virtually impossible. Even so, my action still caused the maid to reprimand me sharply. “Such actions are forbidden, Vase! The consequences will be severe if you do it again! Blink if you understand!”

I blinked.

Then they continued, trinkets and jewels and other decorations were added to our hair. The girl opposite had hers completed first and I watched as her maid then removed the wooden collar from around the top of the jar and stretched her neck, massaging it and rocking her head from side-to-side before then attaching something that I could not quite see to the rim of the jar. The same was done to me. Finally, it was declared complete and both of them left leaving me alone again. Well, not quite alone. For across from me, also immured in a large vase, was the other girl whose face and hair were as elaborately prepared as my own. We stared at one another and she smiled.

“What is your name?” she asked. She had a Wuhan accent.

“Zhang,” I told her. “And you?”

“Ling,” she replied, before then saying, “Welcome to the Home of the White Clouds and Yellow Cranes.

“I have been here for four years now. Three summers and four winters. I arrived after being accused of a crime that I didn’t commit. Before then I was a model worker in a factory in my hometown. I presented a bouquet of flowers to the Chairman. I was the proudest girl in all of China. Then, the next day I was arrested and tried. I expected to die but instead they took me to a hospital, knocked me out and when I awoke my arms and legs were gone. I cried for days. I was in shock. Why had that happened to me? I did not understand it. Then they put me in this jar and took me here. No one explained anything.”

“That is similar to my story, except that I was an actress.”

“We are not the only ones. There are others. How many I do not know, but there are others. The servants speak of them. Two more perhaps, or four. Always in pairs. There was another girl where you are now called Mei, but she fell sick. She didn’t die but a rash covered her face and they took her away. What happened to her I don’t know. I hope that she is alright.”

She paused and her silence filled the air. “How did you catch the Chairman’s eye?” she asked at last.

“I was in an operatic troupe and he saw me perform as an imperial concubine.”

“That makes sense. He likes beautiful women and you are extremely pretty.”

“As are you.”

“I know, but many’s the time I wish I wasn’t. if I had been ugly, I would still have had my arms and legs.”

“Or been executed for your crime…”

Ling was silent for some time, as if lost in thought. “Maybe. I have thought about that a lot. I believe in the revolution, truly I do, and I know that arrests are sometimes made mistakenly in the heat of revolutionary fervour. But my arrest… and possibly yours too, I think they are different. I think we were arrested and charged because we are pretty, so we could be turned into… this.”

“Are you saying that the Chairman himself…?!”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe others did it when they saw that he was taken with our beauty. Either way, we are now stuck in these jars forever.”

“Do we never leave or move?”

“Rarely. I am cleaned of course, every week. That happens on a Thursday. The maids come and they put a handkerchief over my mouth. It has something in it that causes me to fall asleep immediately. When I wake up, I am in this vase like always, but I can feel that I have been washed and shaved and a new suit put on me. Also my wastes have been emptied, I think. But I experience nothing of it.”

“So all you ever do is stand here and look at the wall?”

“Almost, but not entirely. This place is called the Home of the White Clouds and Yellow Cranes and it is the Chairman’s summer home. We are near Wuhan I believe. I have heard them talk about a lake at the front which is very beautiful. I should love to see it, but it is not possible. However, I have seen other things; a beautiful park with green trees. It makes me so happy when that happens.”

“How? Do they take you out of the vase?”

“Yes, sometimes. It is when the Chairman is here. Sometimes he comes for a night, sometimes he comes for months. Sometimes he does not arrive for month after month, other times he comes every week. There is no routine. But when he comes, then there is a chance that we will be taken out. He likes pretty girls you see. I suppose it is because he is such a vigorous, heroic man. Through those doors to my right and your left is his bedchamber. When he comes to stay here, he passes through this room to his bedchamber. He always looks at me and pays me attention. He strokes my cheek and kisses me. Usually girls come. Young, innocent virgins. They are led through this room and when they see us imprisoned in our vases like this they shudder. Some cry and resist, but the result is the same. They go into that room and they come out again later no longer virgins. My guess is that you are not a virgin.”

“No, I am not. When I was in the operatic troupe…”

“You do not need to tell me. With me the local party leader forced himself upon me. If we had been virgins, we could have been the ones led into that room. But we are not. He prefers virgins you see. However, sometimes he wants us there too. We are removed from our jars and dressed in fine silk slips. We are carried in on cushions and left on the bed. Always in pairs. Never alone.”

“What happens then?”

“You will learn in time. But I have come to enjoy it. From that bed I can see a little of the gardens. Sometimes he puts me on his lap in the morning as he smokes on the terrace and I can smell the trees and feel the wind on my cheeks. That is very special.”

“It sounds it.”

“It is, but this is not what I should be talking about. I need to tell you the rules, how we live here. The main one is to not talk or resist when the maids are about. What they feed you, you eat; when they are there, you stay silent.”

“What happens if I make a noise?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Anything else?”

“Stay silent whenever anyone else is around. You may talk with me, but only when we are alone. Do not move or wiggle either. If you do your hairpiece with all its tiny, seemingly-innocent decorations makes noise, and that means punishment. And whatever you do, don’t try to rest your head or loll it to one side. You cannot see them but there are sharp spikes around the rim of the vase. I fell asleep once and the pain was awful. Plus, the maids see the mark they leave – usually they draw blood – and we are severely punished for it. Just stay still and silent. We are here as ornaments, not humans. Remember that.”

“I shall. But pray, tell me, what was that mask you were wearing when I saw you this morning?”

“That is my sleeping mask. It goes on every night. When I wear the mask, I must sleep. When it is not on, sleeping is forbidden. Sleeping unmasked means more punishment. The mask serves two purposes. Firstly, it blinds you and makes the world dark, aiding sleep. But it also contains cream which keeps your skin soft and white. We are here to be beautiful ornaments, not ugly ones.”

That comment caused another bout of silence. I thought about it. I didn’t want to be an ornament. I wanted to be a human, not a beautiful decoration. Again the poem caught the corner of my eye: Who rules over my destiny?

Who indeed?

Those first days were hard. Incredibly so. It was the boredom. Just sitting – or standing if you like – in my vase, staring at Ling. I would have gone crazy without her, I am sure of that. When the maids were away, which was most of the time, we chatted to each other in low voices, but, if the truth be told, there wasn’t much to say. Her life was this square room and so was mine. We knew nothing of the wider world and never would. We were more helpless than babies.

One notable – and regrettable – break in the monotony came after two days. As the maid was taking off my mask in the morning, I yawned, and the action caused my elaborate headdress to jingle. In an instant, her face turned like thunder. “You will be punished!” she decreed, and so I was. My soup was not given to me and, instead, a metal clip with jagged spikes was clamped onto my tongue. The pain was incredible, and I screamed with the agony.

“The clip stays on until lunchtime,” she announced, “unless you make another sound. If you do, it stays on for a full twenty-four hours. Comrade Peng, stay in this room all morning. If she moves or makes a noise, inform me!”

The pain was unimaginable at first and I fought my instincts to stop any movement or sound. After a while the initial intense pain died down but then the throbbing began. I would have done anything to stop it. Tears flowed from my eyes and Ling looked at me full of pity. Never before in my entire existence have I had to endure anything like it. And all the while the accursed maid sat in a corner reading the little red book, just waiting for another jingle from my headdress. After a while, it dulled further but it was still horrible, and the throbbing continued. Each minute passed by agonisingly slowly and I found myself repeating my mantra over and over again in my mind if only to take my thoughts elsewhere.

Thankfully, it worked and I survived the ordeal and had it removed at lunch and Comrade Peng left us. In the afternoon, Ling told me about Mei, my predecessor. She did the same and then continued screaming. It had been on a Thursday and, when she awoke up from her cleaning, she was in agony. Similar clips had been attached to her nipples and clitoris inside the jar and they stayed there for an entire week, the poor girl suffering all the while. “Never have a seen a person that I pitied so much,” said Ling to me.

Aside from the punishment, I should tell you about a couple of other things. Firstly, there was the toilet. Some time after that first meal, I felt the need to pee. I asked Ling what to do and she told me to just let it go. So I did and it dribbled down the catheter tube into my wastes bag somewhere beneath me. I go to the toilet rarely, perhaps peeing twice a day and doing the other even less. We are fed little since we do not need the energy to move and the Chairman likes his girls to not be so fat. We are soft, of course, but not flabby. At first it was strange to just let go, but now the idea of using a toilet is strange to me.

The other thing to talk about is the mask. Mine is identical to Ling’s. It is made of white porcelain and depicts a sleeping imperial beauty. The inside though, is slightly padded and the material soaked in a kind of cream. It is sweet-smelling and the scent engulfs my being. There are tiny holes at the nostrils to breath through, but that is all. It is fastened by means of two straps, one going around my head and the second under the chin. When fitted the world turns pitch black and I am lost in a void of nothingness. I cannot even communicate with Ling because a protrusion fills my mouth. I am silent, I am hidden, I am nothing.

And that is my life. Or at least it was and is until the Chairman pays us a visit.

The first time he came I was beside myself with excitement. Although no one told us, we knew days before because the house filled up with servants cleaning and polishing everything. We were both knocked out and given a special clean, our hairstyles redone, and make-up reworked.

When he came, he stepped into the chamber and then stopped. “Now, who do we have here then?” he said with a wide grin. “My darling Ling, of course, but this newcomer, who is she? Why, I do believe it is the delightful concubine of the Hongxi Emperor from the opera and also, for one exquisite night, my bed.” He came over to me and kissed me on the lips. His tongue explored the inside of my mouth and he smelt of cigarettes. Knowing what was expected of me, I reciprocated. The kiss was long and languid, and it was some time before he broke off. “Now you are even more beautiful than before, blessed concubine!” he declared. “Those arms and legs never suited you, especially after that idiot Wang mutilated your hands for his own weird ideas of pleasure.” He turned to the aide who had followed him in. “These two tonight!”

“Yes Comrade Chairman. But what about the girls from Hainan?”

“They will save until tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

And so it was that, for the first time since my arrival at the Home of the White Clouds and Yellow Cranes I was removed from my vase whilst conscious. It was so strange being taken out of the container and lain on my back. Stranger still, my hairstyle was combed out and my hair washed. My ebony locks reached down my back and beyond, collecting on the floor. When I was sat up again, I saw that the same had been done to Ling. Then, around my private area – which had been shaved clean whilst in the hospital and kept that way ever since – large needles were produced and carefully stuck in. These did not hurt so much, but they did stimulate my womanly juices and cause my passions, already high after being unsated for so long, to go through the roof.

Then we were both dressed in custom-made silk slips. Mine was in red and Ling’s in pink, both decorated in gorgeous gold embroidery with high collars and tassels at the shoulders and hips.


An hour later when we were both carried into the bedchamber on cushions, I was half-mad with lust.

The Chairman was waiting on the bed, his tool out and ready. He took Ling and kissed her deeply on the lips before then positioning her mouth over his tool. She started to suck, and he moved onto me, kissing me long and deep, exploring my mouth again with his tongue.

This continued for a while and I felt both of our desires increasing until he stopped, cast me aside and then picked up Ling and positioned her behind his head, using her bosom as a pillow. Then he turned to me again and carefully lowered me onto his rampant rod.

It was even better than the previous time. Perhaps because I had been sexually unsated for so long, perhaps because of the acupuncture, perhaps because, with no arms and legs, I had nothing else in my life, or perhaps a combination of all the factors, I know not, but impaled on his throbbing tool, I rose up into the Kingdom of Heaven within seconds, spurred on by the rhythm of his body, now a totally passive participant in the act.

I exploded in ecstasy there and then and he smiled. Straightaway he started a rhythm, pushing himself in and out of my desperate hole.

Within minutes he exploded, filling me with seed, before lying back on Ling exhausted. Then he picked me up and cradled me under his arm as one might a child’s toy and, before I knew it, he was snoring.

And that is how we spent the night, him lying on Ling and holding me.

It was the first of many memorable nights. I began to live for these times, not because I loved him – stupid as it might sound, in a way I hated him because it was because of him that I had been turned into this… this pillow – but because it broke the boredom, the crushing monotony of my life. It brought an element of light and colour into a grey existence.

Not all encounters followed the same pattern. For the next two nights he slept with nubile virgins from Hainan. When they were ushered, naked, through our chamber and saw us potted ladies, the look of horror on their faces was unforgettable. But on the fourth night he chose us again, although this time his rod impaled my bottom hole, not the front which was far less satisfying and more painful. And at the end, he clutched Ling and I was cast onto the floor like an unwanted toy.

That was hard. I lay there on the rug, thankful for the paltry softness it provided and listened to the rhythmic sound of their breathing. I felt so alone, so excluded, so totally unwanted. I had landed face down and longed to turn myself over so I could at least try to sleep on my back or side but, reduced as I had been, the wiggles I could produce for pathetically insufficient and I moved not an inch. Lying there, face down on the floor, listening to the two lovers on the bed above me, I hated them both and cursed the day I was born.

And so it continued. Sometimes I was the pillow, sometimes I was his lover. On rare occasions we both served as pillows whilst he broke in some frightened peasant girl, the awestruck wench laying her head on my breasts that night, sobbing after he had gone to sleep.

But my favourite night of all was the one when he asked for me alone. I was brought to him and we kissed, he held me in his arms like would do a normal girl, and then we made love slowly and sensuously like a proper couple. I fell asleep cradled in his arms and then, in the morning, when he went out onto the terrace for a cigarette and coffee, he sat me on his lap and stroked my hair whilst we watched the birds sing.

The terrace, oh yes, the terrace.

The terrace where I sit now. The terrace which may well have sealed my fate.

Last night was one of those nights. Those nights that I live for and come far too rarely. The Chairman has been at the Home of the White Clouds and Yellow Cranes for the past two months yet on only two occasions prior to last night had he invited Ling and I into his room. Last night though, things were different. I was divested of my jar, pampered, dressed and carried in alone. He is an old man these days. Six years have passed since I was immured in my vase, six years that have left little mark on my sister vase maiden and I, so carefree and sedentary have our lives been. But on him, the passage of time has been hard. He labours hard for the nation and the revolution and the cigarettes that he smokes one after another do not help. These days he struggles to walk and coughs continually. I feel sorry for him actually. How queer is that? I would cannot walk nor do anything else for myself, feels pity for a man who can do so much more; the same man who made me this thing that I am today. Yet the truth is, after Ling, he is all that I have and, in my own way, I love him.

Last night I loved him. I loved it when he held me and kissed me. I loved the sensation of him in me and I loved the feel of his breath on my neck. And when he awoke this morning and, with true revolutionary struggle, carried me onto the terrace where we sat together, I on his lap, so we could listen to the birds, that love transformed itself into adoration.

And as we sat there, he quietly recited a poem in his gravelly voice:

The roc wings fanwise,

Soaring ninety thousand li

And rousing a raging cyclone.

The blue sky on his back, he looks down

To survey Man’s world with its towns and cities.

Gunfire licks the heavens,

Shells pit the earth.

A sparrow in his bush is scared stiff.

“This is one hell of a mess!

O I want to flit and fly away.”

“Where, may I ask?”

The sparrow replies,

“To a jewelled palace in elfland’s hills.

Don’t you know a triple pact was signed

Under the bright autumn moon two years ago?

There’ll be plenty to eat,

Potatoes piping hot,

Beef-filled goulash.”

“Stop your windy nonsense!

Look, the world is being turned upside down.”

As the last words died upon his lips, I felt my heart burst with joy. It was so beautiful! He was so beautiful! Life was so perfect. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear.

Yet no reply came. Nor too could I feel his breath. All was silent. All was still.

“Chairman!” I whispered.

No answer.

I called his name again and again. No response. I shouted it out loud. No one came, no one heard. We were alone, he and I. I was alone. Was he even there?

A sparrow in his bush is scared stiff.

“This is one hell of a mess!

O I want to flit and fly away.”

And so here I sit, on his lap, on this terrace, waiting as his corpse turns cold. Unable to do anything for myself, I cannot escape nor call for help. I just wait and worry. Worry of what is to come. For he is my sun and my moon. I was designed to serve him and without him I have no purpose. The nation too is lost, rudderless without its lodestar; at the mercy of the foul elements.

I sit and the birdsong comes back. It seems like a song of hope. Now he is gone, perhaps the suffering will stop. Perhaps my life will improve. Perhaps there will be the dawning of a new era. Perhaps the red sun has set and a new one shall arise. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

My eyes stray back to his prone form and the words of his poem flood my head.

“Stop your windy nonsense!

Look, the world is being turned upside down.”

I shudder.


Revised 03/02/20

A Red Guard’s Tale: Part 2

Part 1

Part Two

May 1970

My life settled into a routine. After that surreal night with the Chairman, I returned to the temple – now renamed the House of Delicate Lotus Flowers – to resume my existence as a courtesan and actress. I spent my days learning lines, learning feminine arts and practising sexual acts on my similarly disabled sisters, whilst my nights were spent with the Comrade Director. We performed three more plays after ‘Mist Gathers Below Shan Mountain’, always to specially-chosen audiences and always involving courtesans and sexual acts. Despite being assured that I was contributing to the Revolution, my interest in them waned and they began to bore me. Indeed, my whole life bored me, but, disfigured as I was, there was no alternative. I was locked in a sumptuous prison.

I was not the only one. My fellow concubines also began to be frustrated. Ah Lam and Chun and I began to talk. Firstly in whispers, then louder. We were not careful, or at least, not careful enough.

Revolution, however, is continual and so nothing stays as it was for long in the People’s Republic. And so it was that I found myself transported to the hospital again for further surgery. None of this had been discussed with me nor even explained or intimated. When I asked, I was told to accept it even though I had not even been informed what this new, necessary, surgery was. When I questioned this, the doctor replied sternly, “Those who assert this kind of ‘independence’ are usually wedded to the doctrine of ‘me first’ and are generally wrong on the question of the relationship between the individual and the Party. Although in words they profess respect for the Party, in practice they put themselves first and the Party second.”

Hearing the words of our beloved Chairman used against me as a rebuke by a comrade, I felt ashamed and exposed. Who was I to question the Party Line? I received no answer to the question because at that moment a nurse stabbed a needle into my arm and within seconds, I lost consciousness.

When I came around, I knew immediately where they had operated upon me. Pain emanated from my hands and, when I lifted them to my face, I saw they were covered in bandages like my mutilated feet and, disturbingly, like those feet, rather smaller than they had been before.

Several hours later, when the bandages had been unwrapped, I contemplated the full horror of their action. As with my golden lotus feet, my hands had had all their bones broken and were crushed and folded in on themselves to reduce their size and also, to create a sort-of aperture in the middle of each one. To achieve this, the nails had all been removed and the sight was so horrifying that, I am ashamed to say, I screamed and then passed out. I was later reprimanded for this by the Comrade Director and forced to issue a self-criticism.

When I returned to the temple, I found that both Ah Lam and Chun had also received the same modifications. None of us though, had had it explained to us as to why this had taken place although the apertures in our hands – which did not look totally unlike the most private parts of a woman – made me suspect the reason. Nor was I the only one of the three of us to think so and Chun was extremely vocal about it, expressing counter-revolutionary thoughts about the Comrade Director’s motives being more about his own personal pleasure than the Revolution. Indeed, I even thought about reporting these examples of mistaken thought to the Party but, I am ashamed to say, I did not for I knew they would lead to her punishment and exile which, whilst undoubtedly just, would cause me to be lonelier than I was then and also, perhaps, Ah Lam to be angry with me. I wrestled with the decision as I lay in bed at night, shamed that I was abandoning my revolutionary zeal so easily, but could not bring myself the courage to do it.

Thankfully, in the morning, the true reason for our latest operations was revealed and it had nothing to do with the mistaken counter-revolutionary rantings of Chun. Instead, the Comrade Director revealed our latest project, another opera set in the era of the Hongxi Emperor, this time penned by the Comrade Director himself! Entitled ‘Eternal Pain written in Ink and Blood’, it again told the story of concubines uprooted from their native villages to serve the cruel Lord of Shaanxi. Of all his concubines, three outshone the others in beauty and intellect but, because they were so clever, they were forever writing poetry which spoke of a revolutionary future for the nation when the working masses would rise up and cast off the manacles of imperialist tyranny. This enraged the emperor, but he enjoyed his pleasure with these poor girls so much, that instead of murdering them as he usually did, he instead had their hands bound like their feet and modified in such a way so that they could provide him with sexual pleasure using their new apertures, but not write their revolutionary poetry.

However, after exhausting the lord one evening in bed, the three brave concubines then killed their oppressor, smothering him by sitting on his face and then, biting his corpse to draw blood, they laboriously wrote out their last message which read ‘It is up to us to organise the people. As for the reactionaries in China, it is up to us to organise the people to overthrow them. Everything reactionary is the same; if you do not hit it, it will not fall. This is also like sweeping the floor; as a rule, where the broom does not reach, the dust will not vanish of itself.’

And then, knowing what faced them, they embraced each other passionately before jumping off the castle walls to their deaths.

To be honest, I did not feel it was as good as the other plays we had acted in (and was a little disappointed that the Comrade Director had not done better) but I was glad that the reason for our latest modification had been explained and Chun’s counter-revolutionary thoughts had been quashed at their moment of birth.

And so we re-entered the life of rehearsals and imperial training again, which now included much, rather unwelcome, use of our new apertures by the Comrade Director. And then, two months later, at another private showing for esteemed comrades at which our beloved Chairman was again present, we premiered ‘Eternal Pain written in Ink and Blood’. And, I think it went well. Certainly we received a hearty applause and I do not feel I could have acted my part better, although this time the Chairman took Ah Lam away with him and, I am ashamed to say, I felt most jealous and alone that night.

But that was that and, following the premiere, we had a couple of weeks’ break before we were to tour the nation, something I was looking forward to as I had long desired visiting cities such as Wuhan, Xian, Qingdao, and far-off Urumqi. The days were lazy, lounging around in the Temple in the day and lying with the Comrade Director at night, his practice being to take all three of us to bed with him at once just as the Lord of Shaanxi had done in ‘Eternal Pain written in Ink and Blood’.

It was a bright spring morning and we were all lying in the Comrade Director’s bed. Sunlight was streaming in through the window and our master lay asleep surrounded by us, exhausted by the exertions of a night which had seen him enthusiastically assault the bottoms of all three of us. My hole still ached from the penetration and I could feel his seed inside me, but I enjoyed the sunshine and the song of the birds.

I had learned to enjoy such simple pleasures.

Lost as I was in the joys of the morning; it came as a total shock to me when the doors to the bedroom were flung open and three red guards stood in the entranceway. Awoken by the noise, the Comrade Director looked petrified.

“Comrade Wang,” announced the central guard, a female about my age, “you are being arrested by the People’s Court for crimes of reactionary behaviour and thought, decadence and immorality! Take him away!”

Shouting denials, he was dragged from the bed.

“Comrades Zhang Hu, Ah Lam and Chun! You are also being arrested by the People’s Court for leading debauched and bourgeois lifestyles and engaging in immoral, illicit sexual activities. Take them away!”

The look of victory and revenge on her face was complete. To this day, I cannot understand why. I did not even know who she was. Maybe she just enjoyed inflicting misery on people?

We were dressed in our finery – further evidence of our decadent lifestyles I suppose – and dragged to the court. The trial was quick and perfunctory. They cited our costumes and the fact that, since entering the theatre, we had all put on weight and were now noticeably fleshier than the comrades in the fields and factories. They then cited the imperialist themes of our plays and levelled the charge that we wanted to be imperialists and live in those oppressive times. We all pleaded our innocence but none of us were listened to. I mentioned that the Chairman himself had praised my work and I was slapped for insulting the Sun of the East. My mind was in confusion: I knew that I was innocent, I felt innocent and yet I knew from countless political sessions that the People’s Tribunals do not make mistakes. Therefore, I must be guilty, yet how could it be? I professed by loyalty and devotion to the Chairman, Party and Revolution yet the turmoil continued.

And then the dreaded sentences were announced: Guilt of debauchery and a traitor to my class. Death by firing squad.

Destroyed inside, I fainted clean away.

I was led away from the tribunal with a feeling of dread in my heart. I knew where this was leading. However unfair, however false the accusations that I was a class traitor, the verdict had been made and my fate was sealed. I would either be going to a prison cell or straight to the execution yard. As I minced along painfully on my cruelly modified feet, I saw my life flash by me and lamented that there was so much more I’d wanted to achieve in it.

There was a van waiting and I climbed into the back of it. I was the only prisoner inside. The door shut behind me and black took over. I felt the engine grumble into life and the road slowly rumbled beneath my feet. In the pitch black I savoured the final journey of my short life.

Light flooded in. as my eyes adjusted, I saw that we were in a yard surrounded by austere buildings. So, this was to be my gaol, the final stop on my life’s pilgrimage. It was a stark place. The two red guards grabbed me and led me out of the van and into the building. It was white and sterile and had a familiar smell about it. A hospital smell. But why was I here? I wasn’t ill. As usual, no explanation was forthcoming.

I minced down several corridors and then turned into a white-tiled room. In the middle was a bed. Two doctors in white coats stood waiting along with a nurse. “Strip!” she commanded. Confused, I obeyed. What was this all about? Did they perhaps eliminate people by a lethal injection rather than the firing squad these days? Yes, that must be it. I was to die in my sleep, peacefully. That pleased me. It sounded easier.

I stripped naked and then the nurse commanded, “On the bed!” I lay down on it and the doctors crowded around, one brandishing a large needle. This was emptied into my arm and the world went black.

When I came around, I was still lying on the bed. I felt pain all over and my bladder was full. But I was on the bed. I was alive!

What did it mean?

I lay there in silence. I felt weak, my mind was hazy. No one else was about. I tried to move but my body didn’t respond. The tiredness took over and I fell asleep again.

When I woke up the second time, my mind was clearer. There was a nurse fussing over me, a different one to before. She had a kinder face than the other. “What is happening?” I asked her weakly.

She gave me a look that seemed almost one of pity, and then said, “You have been redeemed, Comrade Zhang. You have been given a role of great honour in which you can serve the Sun of the East.”

“The Chairman?”

She nodded with what looked like tears in her eyes and then left.

The third time I awoke things were explained to me. A noise awoke me. The noise of people entering my room and bringing something with them. I tried to get up and see what it was but my body wouldn’t respond. None of it except my neck. Something was seriously wrong.

A doctor came over and lifted up my sheet. He prodded my body in several places, at least I could feel that. “Yes, the healing is complete,” he said to his colleague. “She is ready for packaging.”

Another doctor came into view. He looked and nodded and then turned to me. “Comrade Zhang,” he said, looking me in the eyes, “do you know what has happened to you?”

I shook my head. “No, Comrade Doctor.”

“You have been altered, modified, for your new purpose in life. You should have been executed for your anti-revolutionary crimes but the Chairman intervened personally on your behalf. So, you live, but as a price, you must now fulfil a new role.”

“What role is that, Comrade Doctor?”

“As a Vase Maiden to the Chairman himself. You will be providing a service that will have a direct impact on the destiny of the nation.”


“You will be helping maintain the good health of our great Chairman Mao Tse-Tung!”

They showed me what they had done. My mind and body were in shock. I could not believe it. It was like a nightmare and yet this was real.

I still find it difficult thinking of this moment.

My arms and my legs were gone, along with my broken hands and feet. All that remained of me was a limbless torso with a head. I looked no longer a concubine of the old ways, indeed not even human, instead a disembodied freak.

But why?

It was never explained. Instead, they gagged me for screaming and twisted my nipples until I promised to be quiet. I had no way of defending myself, so I had to be still. I felt violated, vulnerable, inhuman.

Then they put me in a suit. My new suit. Made of thick black rubber, it covered me from the neck down, hiding my scars, transforming my disfigured torso into a smooth, black mass. The only holes were for my wastes.

Then the item that they had brought into the room was carried over. It was a strange padded form that opened at the front. I was carried up, off the bed and into it. Literally. I was positioned in it and tubes fed into my nether holes to take care of my wastes. Then the form was buttoned up at the front leaving me as a large ovoid shape with my head protruding from the top.

Then, something else was wheeled into the room and my eyes goggled in amazement at what it appeared to be: a Ming Dynasty vase over a metre tall decorated with exquisite paintings of mountain scenes and bamboo forests. It was beautiful, but what was it for?

That soon became apparent. One of the soldiers who brought it in, carefully took the top part and lifted it off the bottom. Whatever this was, it wasn’t an original Ming vase because it had been designed to come apart. Yet the join between the two halves was so fine that it was hardly noticeable when they were together. My padded torso was lifted up and carried over to the bottom of the vase and positioned inside. The sides reached up to my breast and the fit was snug. Then, when I was in position, the top half of the jar replaced so that my head protruded from the opening and I was immured within the ceramic vessel. Finally, an extra piece, a ring of painted and lacquered wood with padding inside which opened at the front, was fitted around the top of the jar, supporting my neck which had been drooping after being inert for so long. “Comrade Zhang,” said the doctor, “back in the days of the Qing Emperor, there was a custom for unfaithful concubines with a lust for power to have their limbs removed and then they were stored for life inside a ceramic jar as penance for their sins. Your crimes against the revolution and the people are the modern equivalent of those sins and so you were, correctly, sentenced to death. However, the Chairman, in his infinite mercy and wisdom – and he is far more merciful and wise than I would ever have been in his position – decreed that you should be given another chance. And so, you too have undergone the same treatment as those scheming concubines or yore which, considering your actions, is perhaps fitting. Indeed, I praise the Chairman for his vision in this matter. This vase is now your home, your life. It is all that you will ever have and it is more than you deserve. Immured within it, you will still be able to serve the people and the party, but you will also be unable to harm and spread dissent. Do you understand, Comrade Zhang?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“And do you have any questions?”

I thought. I wanted to nod and ask a thousand things but they all sounded silly and dried on my tongue. Who was I to ask questions, I who had been saved from execution by the intervention of the Chairman Himself? But I had to ask something, to show some revolutionary fervour for these developments. “Is it only me or have my comrades also been granted an amnesty as Vase Maidens?”

“Hmmm, a good question, Comrade. The short answer is no, you were the only one that the Chairman intervened over. He read your file and saw something in it that made him believe you deserved mercy. However, you are not the only Vase Maiden.”

“There are others?!”

“Yes, and you shall meet some of them.”

“And shall I always be immured within this vase? Forever?”

“No, you shall be removed for cleaning at pre-arranged intervals, but you shall know nothing of it. As far as you are concerned, the vase is your future unless, that is, the Chairman has other ideas.”

“What sort of ideas?”

“If he has them, you shall know.”

“And where shall I be?”

“That you do not need to know. Anything else?”

I paused, about to say ‘no’, but then another thought came to my mind. “Could you… could you please tell the Chairman that I am grateful? For his mercy that is.”

The doctor smiled. “I shall try to get that message to him but who knows? You may be able to tell him yourself one day…”

Soon after he left, two red guards came in. they had a crate into which they manoeuvred the vase with me in it. My vase, Me. Then they packed it all around with crumpled newspaper telling of the glory of our great cultural revolution, and nailed the top on. I was cast into blackness again.

For some time nothing happened. Then I felt the crate being moved. I heard an engine and felt a rumble. Sometime later I felt it being loaded onto a train. I heard a whistle blow and we moved off. After a while the gentle rhythm of the rails sent me to sleep.

Part 3

A Red Guard’s Tale: Part 1

A Red Guard’s Tale

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter




 … and so the Empress Dowager Cixi, seeing the influence that this beautiful concubine was having upon the young emperor, and recognising that that influence would only increase with time, did cause the poor girl to be charged with adultery and thus sentenced to a most horrible punishment. Rather than merely strangling the girl as was customary, she did employ a skilled surgeon to remove all of her limbs and then sew the wounds up, leaving only a torso with a head. Then, the girl was immured within a large ceramic jar which was placed in the hallway leading to the chambers of Cixi herself. Every day, as the cause of her misfortune passed by, the girl had to thank the Empress Dowager for her great mercy, a task that she never failed in, for her younger sisters had also been taken to the palace and the same fate awaited them if she failed…

The young man lifted his head from the ancient book and returned back to the real world. No longer was he in the opulent palace in the great Northern Capital, but instead back in a musty library in provincial Changsha. Although he hated imperialism and the shame on China that it had spawned, he had to admit that the Empress Dowager had style. To immure her hated enemy in a pot and taunt her daily as the decades passed and her charms faded. Yes, she’d had style.

His face clouded as he thought of the people who ignored him, who looked down on him for his origins, who did not realise who he was and what he was going to achieve. One day he, like Madame Cixi, would rise from humility to greatness. One day he would mete out justice and revenge with as much style as she had.

He stood up and walked out of the library. As he was exiting, the pretty daughter of Landowner Hu walked past. He bowed at her but she did not even acknowledge his presence.

Part One

May 1966

“The world is yours, as well as ours, but in the last analysis, it is yours. You young people, full of vigour and vitality, are in the bloom of life, like the sun at eight or nine in the morning. Our hope is placed on you … The world belongs to you. China’s future belongs to you.”

A million fists punched the air in response and a million cheers swelled up into the sky. In the middle of them was the defiant fist and exultant cry of me, Zhang Hu, student at Changsha University and committed Red Guard.

“To rebel is justified!” roared the crowd.

The distant man on the podium waved.

“We will destroy of the Four Olds!”

Never before in my life had I felt such pride, such joy, such a sense of purpose. My heart poured out with adoration to that distant Chairman on the podium who was leading the revolution on to its rightful conclusion; who was steering China to a glorious future.

My grandfather had been a landowner, but my father had rebelled. He’d taken his bag and left, headed into the mountains and joined the ragtag band of communists who were marching through the country, away from the nationalist tyrants, committed to establishing a brighter tomorrow, committed to a future in which the East is Red.

And when they had won their most improbable of victories in 1948, he had been forgiven his family’s bourgeois history and had joined the ranks of the revolutionaries now rebuilding the Motherland.

Sadly, he perished in an explosion at a makeshift iron furnace during the Great Leap Forward, but his demise in the cause of socialism had caused our family’s star to rise even further and, despite my middling grades, I was given a place in the university, the first female of our family to attend. My grandmother and mother, their feet bound to immobility, had been immured within the walls of the home, but I was of the new generation of revolutionaries, free and confident and eternally dedicated to Mao Tse-Tung Thought.

Which is why I had jumped on the train to Beijing in my green uniform and red-starred cap and was now punching the air with a million other comrades.

And so engrossed in the spectacle was I, that I never noticed the high-ranking party official observing me from the side-lines. “Who is she?” he asked the comrade standing next to him.

“Which one?”

“The exceptionally pretty one there, with the pigtails, big tits and nicely-shaped bottom.”

“I shall find out Comrade Director.”

“Have her report to me tomorrow morning at my office.”

I had no idea why I’d been summoned by my troupe leader after breakfast in our dormitory and ordered to report to the Central Cultural Committee on the Road for Eternal Revolution, but as a dedicated communist, I obeyed unquestioningly. At the grand stone building – which I had some trouble finding – I was shown into the office of Comrade Wang, the Director of Operatic Arts and found myself in a large office sitting across from a rather leery-looking man who chain-smoked cigarettes and smiled at me creepily. “Comrade Zhang, so good to see you. Thank you for coming. At the rally yesterday, the moment I saw you, I thought, yes, there, that is our girl!”

“Thank you, Comrade,” I replied, not having a clue what he was on about.

“Have you ever acted, Comrade Zhang?”

“No Comrade, apart from in a school play depicting the heroic women’s detachment of Hainan Island who repelled the nationalist aggressors against overwhelming odds, I have never acted.”

“And what role did you play in that stirring revolutionary epic?”

“I was a soldier, Comrade. I did not speak, only shoot.”

“Then the dramatic director had no vision. He should be criticised. You exude talent, Comrade Zhang, that is clear to me and I have been casting and directing revolutionary plays and operas since the Long March when I was one of the comrades who accompanied our esteemed Chairman on his revolutionary road. Comrade Zhang, I would like to offer you a position in my latest work which is a production of ‘The Legend of the Red Lantern’. What do you say?”

“Comrade Director, I only want to serve the revolution, the Motherland and the Chairman. If this is how the Party wants me to serve, then this is how I shall serve!”

“Excellent! You have a correct revolutionary attitude, Comrade Zhang.” He got up and walked over to me and, to my surprise and, I am ashamed to say, slight revulsion, stroked my cheek. “We are embarking upon a new era in China’s history. We are undergoing a Cultural Revolution and the best place to serve it is in culture. I see this clearly. In the past only famous actresses and actors were allowed to star in films and operatic plays. But in our revolutionary age, it is more correct to pluck ideologically sound youngsters off the street and give them the chance to shine. You shall move into our production building immediately. Be happy my dear, you will be under my personal tuition.”

On that day my life changed out of all recognition. I did not return to Changsha and instead moved into the accommodation of the Cultural Committee. This meant larger rations and the food that I was now eating seemed to be both tastier and of a higher quality than the proletarian gruel that I usually subsisted on. Even this though, was not such a great change as my new sleeping arrangements. They were a world away from the spartan dormitory that I had shared with the other students in Changsha. Now, I had my own room, properly furnished and with a large double bed covered with clean sheets. At first I thought that it was a mistake; the other girls in the troupe all slept in a dormitory only slightly better than the one I had left, but when I protested, I was told that the Party looks after those who love it and that I, as a genuine Red Guard and communist performer, had been allocated this superior room.

Who was I to question the wisdom of the Party?

But if the bedroom gave me security and sanctity at night, my days had none. Although I was allocated a relatively minor part in the play, Director Wang spent an inordinate amount of time coaching me, usually on a one-to-one basis. And those sessions regularly involved him going further than a theatre director usually would. He would sit me on his knee as I learned my lines and, distressingly, I could feel his erect thing pressing through the folds of his trousers. At the time, I was a young and entirely innocent girl when it came to the ways of the world and the continued proximity to a man disturbed me. Furthermore, as the time passed, his attentions only grew. He would stroke my hair and cheek and then started to kiss me occasionally, firstly on the cheek or forehead and then, whenever we met or parted, on the lips. Also, as the weeks passed, he would make comments about my new rations causing me to “fill out nicely” and then he would praise the curves of my hips or breasts which he would often brush his hand against as if by accident. My mind was in turmoil about this. He was such a kind man and a respected member of the Party, yet I had also heard that he was married and, indeed, had seen his wife in the theatre on a couple of occasions. Finally, to still my mind, I asked him if what we were doing was appropriate and, to my surprise, he simply laughed and declared, “My dear, such thoughts are not worthy of a revolutionary daughter of China! Marriage is a bourgeois notion, as too is that of separation between male and female comrades. Indeed, they are Old Thoughts, one of the detested Four Olds which we strive ceaselessly to destroy. Indeed, if there is any impropriety in our relationship, it is that it is not close enough and, if we were to really walk the revolutionary road, we should both fully embrace our natural and entirely correct socialist feelings and become closer still. There would be no better way of demonstrating our dedicated to Mao Tse-Tung Thought.”

And so, that night, in my fine double bed, I lost my virginity.

My star continued to rise. Despite a somewhat lacklustre performance in ‘The Legend of the Red Lantern’ and another mediocre performance in a minor role in ‘Taking Tiger Mountain By Strategy’ (I was a female soldier with trousers and a jacket that were excessively tight around my bottom and chest), I was lauded in the press and received awards from the Party. Then came my third performance, ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’, an opera based on the reactionary regime of Hongwu Emperor, the first of the Ming Dynasty rulers. He was infamous for having a huge harem of concubines, whom he treated with absolute cruelty, keeping them locked in a gilded cage and torturing them regularly as well as using them for his personal pleasure. I was to play Mei, a beautiful girl from a village who was spotted by the emperor, forced to come to Beijing and transformed into a concubine. She then had to act as a dancer and sexual slave for the Hongwu Emperor before, at the end, secretly poisoning him for being an oppressive tyrant who exploited the working masses. However, upon his death, my poor character then suffered the ignoble fate of being buried alive with the emperor and thirty-seven of her fellow concubines, the opera finishing with the stone being placed on the tomb and us actresses singing a woeful song about how the people’s burden is a heavy one and how we pray for a great leader to liberate all workers and peasants from such tyrants.

The opera, unlike the others, was not for public consumption – due to it depicting some extremely reactionary times and politicians, exposure to which could corrupt some weak minds I was told – and instead was a private performance for elite members of the Communist Party. When we began rehearsing, I was most surprised – and unhappily so – as the role was quite different to those I had played before. Although, most of the role required me to wear the elaborate and beautiful clothes of a concubine of that era, in several scenes I was made to strip entirely naked and simulate sex scenes with the actor who was playing the emperor. Thankfully, he was a somewhat handsome and considerate man, but it was most embarrassing and shame-making to have to cavort like that on a stage in front of a large room full of strange men and, as I acted, I had to continue repeating over and over again in my mind the mantra, ‘I am doing this for the good of the Party! I am doing this for the good of the Chairman! I am doing this for the good of the Revolution!’ Such thoughts helped stay my mind a little, but it was still difficult.

At the end of the first performance though, the applause was rapturous and, as the faux tomb was taken away and we gave our final bow to the audience, the Chairman himself came onto the stage and congratulated us all, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the buttocks with his hand. Never before had I been so honoured and in an instant, I knew that it had all been worth it.

Or so I thought. The very next morning, I was summoned to the Party offices.

“Comrade Zhang, thank you for coming to this meeting.”

I looked around me, from left to right. As well as the Comrade Director, there were a lot of major Party figures sitting at the table. Whatever this was about, it was important.

“We will get straight to the point, Comrade. Your performance in ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’ was so inspiring that you have been selected to play the lead role in a new production, ‘Mist Gathers Below Shan Mountain’. However, we have received some criticism concerning the historical accuracy of some of the costumes and dialogue in ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’ and we wish to make this new production entirely accurate and reflective of that barbaric time.”

“Yes, Comrade Zhang,” said the Comrade Director, taking over. “This new play concerns the story of Zhu, a concubine in the court of the cruel Hongxi Emperor. She was a humble village girl who was spotted by the emperor, brought to the palace and forced to live a miserable life as his concubine. Her story is an excellent reflection on the evils of imperialism and how the ruling classes have always turned the heroic worker-peasant classes into slaves. However, in the story, a village boy name Tung, seeing the oppression all around him and being in love with Zhu, raises a peasant army to free his love. They succeed and escape to the mountains but, because he does not have the ideological guidance provided by Mao Tse-Tung thought, the evil emperor outwits him, and they are hunted down by the reactionary troops. In the end, they commit suicide by throwing themselves off the Shan Mountain into a mist-filled ravine, declaring that one day a saviour will come to China who will liberate the toiling masses permanently.”

“It sounds a stirring and ideologically-correct tale, Comrade Director.”

“And you shall play Zhu. However, to fulfil the role, you must undergo some training and, ahem… modifications…”


“Yes, Comrade Zhang,” interrupted the political officer, “modifications. A large part of the tragedy of Zhu’s story focuses on how she is forced to suffer by having her feet bound into the extreme Golden Lotus configuration as this pleases the sadistic emperor. He likes to use her feet for sexual purposes and, as this is a play destined for an adult audience, then we cannot make this inaccurate. The foot-binding is central to the entire tale and conveys a strong moral message as the Party was the organisation that finally put a stop to this awful practice and the people need reminding of this. Therefore, as part of fulfilling this role, you are to undergo footbinding.”

“But it is banned!”

“The Party is prepared to make an exception for reasons of ideological education.”

“And is it necessary?” A wave of fear had passed over me. I recalled my grandmother and mother who’d had bound feet. The constant agony they felt when walking; their slow, mincing gait. I had been freed by the Revolution. To undergo that was simply unimaginable!”

“Entirely necessary. Are you questioning the Party’s wisdom, Comrade Zhang?”

“Not at all, but…”

“Then you shall be taken to the hospital following this meeting and the process shall begin.”

How can I say what I felt then? To have my feet bound like a woman from the reactionary days? This was certainly not something that I welcomed! I had seen old women with their feet mutilated in that way of course, hobbling around like invalids, but I never thought that I would be one of them. Indeed, what I love so much about the Chairman and the Revolution and the Party was that they are all so progressive, dragging China out of the dark ages to a bright future where all the people can be free and successful. Yet here they were, ordering me to be dragged back, to mutilate myself for “beauty”. How could it be? What did it mean? I knew that the orders of the Party should not be questioned for the Party embodies a collective wisdom greater than that of any individual, but even so, I was finding this hard to accept. Again, as I had the night before in the opera, I repeated the mantra ‘I am doing this for the good of the Party! I am doing this for the good of the Chairman! I am doing this for the good of the Revolution!’ but this time it did little good. For, if the truth be told, now I was not so much ashamed as scared. I had heard that the binding process could be exceptionally painful. And pain is something I could never welcome.

The hospital was white and clean, one of the establishments reserved for the use of senior Party officials. I was shown to a private ward and nurses fussed around me. Then a doctor came and explained what was to happen:

“Comrade, to achieve the desired Golden Lotus appearance which was usual for concubines in the period you will be depicting in your play, it is required that all the bones in your foot are fractured or, to be more precise, dislocated. To enable the size of your feet to be reduced, the toes on each foot will be curled under, then pressed with great force downwards and squeezed into the sole of the foot until the toes break.”

Even hearing his words made me shudder. It sounded so painful. Surely I could not endure this! Seeing my grimace, he continued, “Do not fear so much about the pain of the operation. We will give you anaesthesia during the operation and so you will feel nothing. Straight afterwards the feet will be tightly bound with bandages. However, pain will come later when the anaesthesia wears off and, also, whenever you put weight on the feet. Walking will become very difficult for you, Comrade Zhang, particularly during this period of binding.”

“You say ‘period’. Does it not finish with the operation?”

“No, not at all. In the olden days, girls first had their feet bound at a young age and the feet were continually rebound daily to keep them decreasing in size. However, you do not have the luxury of time. The opening of your play is National Day which is only six months away. Modern medical procedures can speed the process up somewhat, but you will still need a daily rebinding which is painful although the Party, of course, has decreed that you be provided with anaesthesia free of charge for this daily routine.”

“I thank them for their generosity.”

“Indeed. And, with time, it will become easier, Comrade Zhang. But the broken toes will be held tightly against the sole of the foot while the foot is then drawn down straight with the leg and the arch of the foot will be forcibly broken. The bandages will be repeatedly wound in a figure-of-eight movement, starting at the inside of the foot at the instep, then carried over the toes, under the foot, and around the heel, the freshly broken toes being pressed tightly into the sole of the foot. At each pass around the foot, the binding cloth will be tightened, pulling the ball of the foot and the heel together, causing the broken foot to fold at the arch, and pressing the toes underneath the sole. The binding will be pulled so tightly that you will not be able to move your toes at all.

“This is the binding process in brief, Comrade. After four months, walking should be not so painful as your feet will have begun to become accustomed to their new shape. That is when you can walk and practise your role. But, be warned, walking will never again be easy for you. You will not be able to run or jump with your bound feet, but instead you will mince along with your comely torso swaying. Moreover, small feet are easily fatigued, and they can’t support the body for too long. So you will need servants to support you with their arms. Indeed, feet that have undergone the Golden Lotus treatment have only the big toes and the heels touching the ground, so any movement is difficult. Small feet are fragile and delicate and easy to be hurt.”

“Comrade Doctor, you have used the word ‘never’ a couple of times in your explanation. Surely though, after the play is over, I can undergo a procedure to return my feet to their natural state?”

“Unfortunately Comrade Zhang, that is not the case. The footbinding once achieved means that your feet can never return into their normal shape. Indeed, releasing the footbinding bondage would only make you more likely to stumble and fall. This is permanent, Comrade. You are sacrificing your feet for the Revolution.”

And so it was that, with tears in my eyes, thinking of my mother and hers before her, I went under the anaesthetic and the doctor began his work.

Life was immeasurably hard for me after the footbinding process. It was also completely different in almost every respect.

The first thing to talk about was the pain. When the anaesthesia wore off it was there and it was constant. A dull throbbing ache. The drugs helped keep it low, but it was still there. And it got worse whenever I tried to move. After only a couple of days, I had to undergo daily exercises which involved me taking steps across a room supported by my maids. Each step was agony as I pressed down on my poor, crushed, broken toes that were now folded underneath the foot. The movement was excruciatingly slow too, and I found that, like the comrade doctor had said, I walked in a way which caused my whole body to sway. I was told that, in the olden days, this was found to be sexually exciting by men. I couldn’t see it personally. I just felt in pain, violated and disabled.

My days now had a strict routine. Every morning, after waking, my bandages were unwound and the feet given a long bath by the maid. Every crevice was washed with soap and then perfume put on them before the whole deformed ensemble was tightly bound again. The whole routine was repeated in the evening, about an hour before bed. In the meantime I sat there, learned my lines and immersed myself into the part of a courtesan in the court of the Hongxi Emperor.

And when I say ‘immersed myself into the part’, I mean it. Totally. Straight after my operation in the hospital, I was taken to my new home. It was an old Confucian temple that had been requisitioned by the Party and turned into a home for the Comrade Director and the actresses training to act as courtesans. At the start, there was only me in the latter category but, after time, more arrived. Also with bound feet. We were forced to live exactly as courtesans had. We dressed in elaborate, silken gowns, had our hair dressed in huge and complicated hairstyles and were kept as pampered playthings in a gilded cage. Sitting down most of the time (this was both necessary due to the pain and difficulty of walking, but also encouraged as traditional wisdom states that it gave women larger bottoms which please men), I began to learn traditional courtesan arts such as playing stringed instruments, singing and, most shockingly, the ancient arts of the bedchamber. I was most disconcerted when my maid gave me a rubber phallus to practice sucking upon and then, stripped me and tried to insert it into my bottom. What had this to do with any play? Again and again I found myself reciting my mantra ‘I am doing this for the good of the Party! I am doing this for the good of the Chairman! I am doing this for the good of the Revolution!’ but, alas, I found it helping less and less.

I had ample opportunity to use those new found skills too. I now spent every night with the Comrade Director and he urged me ceaselessly to use the new skills I had learned. Very soon both my lower holes as well as my mouth became accustomed to receiving his tool, just as those of an ancient concubine would receive the tool of her emperor. What shocked me all the more though, was that there was yet another element to the footbinding process which I had never before imagined.

The Golden Lotus arrangement into which my poor feet had been crushed, resulted in each one having a high “arch” in the middle. However, when in bed the Comrade Director ordered me to put them together, sole to sole, so that the two arches formed a hole. A hole which could then be used for his penis.

I now had four erotic holes instead of the usual three and this final one, the Comrade Director took to using more and more.


This, however, was not totally bad for me, for my tiny feet, being always bound with several layers of bandages, now had skin so delicate and sensitive that when he used the “arches hole”, I also felt a great degree of excitement and arousal.

It was a small mercy.

And so came the day of the play. I was woken early, dressed in all my finery and escorted to the theatre where the performance was to take place. Alongside me were two sister “concubines” who had both previously been pretty actresses and had now moved into the old temple with me and the Comrade Director. The first, Ah Lam, moved in about a month after me whilst the second, Chun, had followed six weeks after that. Both of them had also been subjected to the Golden Lotus and both were also engaged in the same training regime which, after their arrival, had been extended to erotic kissing with us practising on one another.

Both also shared the Comrade Director’s bed with me, often with two or even three of us pleasuring him at the same time. All in the name of historical accuracy of course.

But due to my greater experience, I was taking the lead role of Zhu in ‘Mist Gathers Below Shan Mountain’, a play which, like ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’, was only shown to a select audience of senior Party officials and which, shamefully, involved not simulated, but real sexual activity on the stage. My mind struggled as the actor lay on top of me, pounding first my love channel and then my “arches hole” with his rod, as to how this could ever be forwarding the Glorious Revolution, and even though I recited the mantra in my mind, it brought me no solace and, indeed, my only feeling when we reached the end and Zhu and Tung flung themselves off the Shan Mountain (onto a mattress hidden beneath the stage) was one of relief.

And yet it did not end there. Indeed, then it only just began. For after the performance, still dressed in my full regalia, I was taken to meet a particular member of the audience, no one other than the Chairman himself, our beloved Mao Tse-Tung! He praised me wholesomely, whilst holding my hand, stroking my cheek and then, to my surprise, escorted me to his car. And so, dressed as a courtesan from years gone by, I was whisked through the dark and empty streets of Beijing, to the Chairman’s residence and there, carried to his bedchamber and made to lie with the very father of the Chinese nation, the greatest man to have ever lived, the architect of our nation’s joy. Yes indeed, stripped naked, the Sun of the East did insert his rod into me, hold me by his side and caress my body and, for a brief hour or so, in a way, it all became worth it.

Part 2



Pillow Companion: Part 3

Part 2

Part 3

Chapter 1

Sitting on her carrier was, undoubtedly, the strangest experience of Almast’s young life. She had never ridden a horse during her human days, but she imagined that it must be similar. Well, sort of.

What would be the same, she guessed, would be the experience of sitting in a leather saddle with a living, breathing creature beneath you.

What would be different, aside from having arms and legs to help you balance and grip, is that horsewomen are not kept in their saddles by two large rubber plugs which are carefully fed into their two intimate holes.

Yes, both her intimate holes .

Having something slid into her love channel was one thing, but she was a little used to it. After all, had not that most feminine of places been graced with the Divine Member of the sultan during their night tonight? Having a rubber dong inserted into it was disconcerting, but not a new experience.

Having a similar dong maneuvered into her bottom hole (with the help of copious amounts of lubricant) was something else entirely. Nothing had ever been put up there before, nor did she think that anything ever should be. As the orifice fought against the unwelcome invader, she recalled Lalag’s words, “It’ll be going in your other holes soon,” and winced. And when it was in and the sphincter muscles closed back around its fluted based, she felt uncomfortably full but very firmly anchored to her carrier.

The carrier itself disquieted her though. Her breasts were squeezed up against its head, yet the head had no human features. She tried to imagine it as a living, breathing normal human being but struggled to relate the contorted anonymous creature beneath her to such an image. It was more like an animal. “Is it human?” she had asked her maid upon first sight of the creature.

“It was once, Exalted One. Now it is your carrier.”

It was once. Once human, now not. Just like her.

She shuddered at the realisation.

Controlling the thing was easy. She merely had to whisper and it obeyed. Walk forwards! Stop! Turn left! Turn right! It was fun even as it gave her a sense of power and control that she had not felt since undergoing the honour of reduction. The maidservant told her that there was a microphone embedded within the large nose jewel that she’d been given as part of her preparations for the first night in the sultan’s bedchamber. “It is activated every time your bottom plug is squeezed. That’s why it works when you are impaled onto the saddle but not when you are removed. You need only whisper; it is trained to respond to whispers and not full speech.”

So she did whisper and revelled in the power she now held. For an hour she got to accustom herself to controlling this thing, whilst it got to accustom itself to her. Then the maidservant informed her that she was ready to leave and that all the pillow girls were enjoying a day with their master in the palace gardens.

To leave the room, she had to don a burqa to preserve her modesty. This was turquoise in colour and expensively embroidered. When it was fitted over her and the carrier, Almast was amazed at the image she saw when she peered through the grille into the mirror. Gone was a strange, half-human, half-animal creature with a limbless torso on its back and in its place was what appeared to be a perfectly normal and fully-limbed noblewoman ready to leave the female quarters and engage in society.

Unsteadily yet excitedly, Almast and her carrier strode slowly yet gracefully out of the room and down several corridors, following the maidservant. They came out into a glorious garden with gushing fountains and trees heavy with fruit. Several birds of paradise walked around the pathways nonchalantly and the scent of thousands of flowers filled the air, Almast revelling in it even through the material of her burqa.

The maid led them to where her sisters were waiting. All were dressed in gorgeous burqas of flowing silk – red, green, blue, purple, yellow, all the colours of the rainbow in fact. The pillows greeted one another by pressing their veiled cheeks against one another. As she leant in to greet Patil, Almast felt a little uncertain, scared that she would slip out of her leather saddle, but the plugs and straps held her firm. “I see you have been introduced to your carrier,” said her sister pillow softly. Almast nodded. “It is a strange relationship that we share; they cannot see us and we know nothing of them and yet we are somehow close. I love mine in a particular way, don’t I boy?” Underneath the burqa, Almast detected a slight wiggle as if the carrier were proud of the praise it had received.

The pillows sat down on cushioned seats in a shaded corner of the garden and then the sultan himself arrived, fanned by servants carrying palm leaves. Almast’s heart leaped when she saw him, remembering the night of passion that they’d shared together. He too sat down and a band began playing raga music. They continued for some time before a singer was brought out. She was young and lithe, with enchanting dark eyes and captivating curves. Seeing those limbs, Almast felt a surge of jealousy rush through her truncated body, but when she opened her mouth, such a heavenly sound came out that she forgot her anger and lost herself in the beautiful music. The sultan too enjoyed it, for he clapped heartily after each song and demanded more, but then, after about ten pieces, he clapped his hands thrice and the young singer stopped. Then he beckoned her over and, to Almast’s shock and horror, ordered her to strip naked before then impaling her on his now-rigid rod. The pillow gasped as, in full view of everyone, the sultan proceeded to take the (rather unwilling) girl, laughing as he did, before withdrawing before completion, ordering her to kneel in front of him, and take his tool in her hands.

“Watch this,” whispered Patil. “This is his favourite bit!” And, even as she spoke the words, warm salty seed jetted out of his member, covering the face of the weeping singer in creamy white goo. “It is considered a great honour,” continued Patil as the girl was led away.

Soon afterwards, their team of pillows was led away also.

Chapter 2

Life as a carrier for Almast, his darling, beloved, Almast, was a surreal experience. He could hear her whispering in his ear in a manner most intimate, talking to him directly in a voice that could melt any man’s heart, yet he could never see her and he was acutely, painfully aware that she didn’t even know his identity. To her he was just a thing, a trolley to cart her truncated form around. Their relationship was like that between horse and rider except that this horse could think and feel like a human. The quiver of her heavenly whispers combined with her warmth and tantalysing curves pressed up against him, caused his member to grow rock hard which was painful because the suit that they’d put him in contained some sort of chastity device which held his cock in a sort of curved metal tube. That was fine when it was flaccid, but when he grew erect and stiffened, the tube stopped it from reaching its desired form and that hurt both physically and mentally.

And in a dark, silent world with only the whispers of his beloved and the warmth of her body pressed against him to occupy his mind, that pain was almost unceasing. When she instructed him to walk some distance with a number of stops and turns before she was then removed from his saddle and an unknown and unseen servant took hold of his leash, he was almost glad.

She was taken to her room where she was removed from her carrier and set down on the bed. Then her maid started fussing over her and beautifying her. She was bathed all over and then fragrant oils rubbed into every pore of her skin. Her brows and lashes were trimmed and extended and make-up exquisitely applied to her face. Then attentions were shifted to her nether regions. Wax was liberally applied to the whole region and then strips of paper applied. When these were removed, the pain was excruciating, but the resulting appearance, entirely denuded of hair, was remarkable.

Then her hair was braided and decorated with jewellery before golden ornaments were added to her nose ring, her ears, her navel and the piercings through her nipples. Finally ready, she was then placed on a velvet cushion and carried through to the sultan’s bedroom.

Already waiting there were her two fellow team members. They were both sitting on the bed, their backs resting against the headboard. They greeted her with smiles and when she was placed between them, both Shushan and Patil squirmed and pressed their truncated forms up against their new sister.

And then they waited.

Around half an hour later, the sultan arrived.

Shavarsh could not understand what was happening. He was led by his leash along a route that he did not recognise and then a strange voice spoke into his ears. It was neither Almast nor the voice, but a new, unknown one. It was male.

“Well done Carrier of Pillow Almast. You have done well and your sultan will now reward you. You will tonight witness the most exquisite of delights.”

The new voice finished and he felt straps being fastened around him. Then, someone fiddled around at his crotch and to his shock – and delight – he felt the chastity tube being removed. His member sprang to life. Then, his eyes cleared. He was in a tiny compartment, just big enough to house his standing form. It was entirely black save for two pinholes located in front of his eyes. He peered through them and saw a bedroom of such size and sumptuousness that he wondered if it were real.

He waited.

After what seemed like an incredibly long time, the door to the bedroom opened and a maid walked in. She was carrying a cushion and, seated on the cushion, was a girl. She was an incredibly beautiful girl with eyes like sapphires and long blonde hair. What was most remarkable about her, however, was that she was totally devoid of any limbs. Where her arms and legs should have been were only smooth curves of porcelain-like skin. The maid put the cushion down, lifted the girl and seated her on the bed so that she was facing the hidden carrier. Then the maid left.

The vision before him was strange yet curiously erotic. The girl was undeniably beautiful, that was true, but it was more than that. The total lack of limbs, a mere torso waiting to be used, sexually excited Shavarsh. Her absolute helplessness and dependence aroused him in a manner that he did not understand. His member stiffened further and he felt guilty, as if he were being unfaithful to his beloved.

He gazed at this vision of female loveliness with unimaginable longing. For so long he had been denied any sight at all, condemned to a hell of blurred shapes, and now, with full sight restored, he had been given a great sight indeed to feast his eyes upon! How glorious and kind was the sultan! He stopped himself even as he thought it: glorious and kind, the man who had transformed him from an agile young gallant into a thing, condemned to carry a truncated torso on his back. He should hate, not praise such a person! Yet he was thankful, more thankful than he had ever been before in his life. To a starving man, even a morsel of stale bread is heavenly.

The door opened again and another maid walked in, also carrying a velvet cushion. And on this velvet cushion was another truncated girl. She had long ebony tresses and chocolate eyes, yet straightaway it knew that it was not her, not the one that he yearned for. This girl was placed on the bed near the other. Both visions of reduced loveliness stared back at him and his dick went into overdrive. He was desperate to touch it, to relieve the pressure; the slightest touch would cause him to erupt, but his hands were chained behind him and, squirm as he might, the belts fastening him to the wall prevented him from rubbing that throbbing tool against one of the sides of the compartment. He was in heaven and hell at the same time.

And then it got better and worse. The door opened for a third time and another truncated girl on a pillow was brought in. And this time, in an instant, he knew that it was her. His eyes drunk in that perfect face, those kind and captivating eyes, those rosebud lips just waiting for a kiss. She was placed in the middle and looked at him unknowingly whilst the other girls leaned in towards her.

All four waited.

And waited.

The door opened for a final time and a man walked in. Naked and smiling, he made his way over to the bed where the three girls waited defensively. He spoke to them and picked the blonde one up. Then he kissed the second and finally lifted up Almast, talking to her and then kissing her on the lips. Jealousy and hatred coursed through Shavarsh’s veins. How dare he! She was his girl! But she wasn’t, of course; he was no longer even human, reduced to a mere thing by the man who now played with the pinnacle of female perfection.

As helpless as the girls on the bed, he watched with anger and fascination.

The Sultan lay on the centre of the bed. Then he took the black-haired girl and positioned her under his head. Shavarsh gasped in anger. He was using her, such an exquisitely beautiful creature who could melt the heart of a thousand men, merely as a pillow. He rested his head on his ample breasts, snuggling into them and then ignored her. It was wrong! So wrong! She was much more than that. And yet… yet, stripped of her limbs like that, didn’t the girl – didn’t all three of the girls – resemble pillows in a perverted way? Shavarsh tried to shake the notion from his head, but it stubbornly stayed there.

Then the sultan took the blonde girl. He lifted her up and then placed her between his hairy legs, her face just above his throbbing cock. In amazement, Shavarsh watched as the girl wrapped her mouth around it and started sucking eagerly. He was using her mouth like a love cavern! It was so wrong, so perverted and yet so absolutely erotic at the same time.

And finally, the sultan picked up Almast, his own darling, beloved, perfect, innocent, Almast. He lifted her onto his stomach and then cradled her in his arms, moving his face to hers and embracing in the most erotic and passionate fashion imaginable. Without arms she returned the embrace in every way she could, whilst the blonde sucked away on his cock and the black-haired girl gave him comfort with her breasts. The kiss was long and intense, last minutes, and only finishing when the sultan suddenly sat up, removed the blonde from his cock  with a push, put his own hand around it, placed Almast on the bed, positioned himself over her and then sprayed his salty, milky seed all over her face.

He panted, exhausted by the exertions and rang a bell. Moments later, a maid arrived carrying a glass of water. The sultan greedily drank it all by himself and then got the blonde-haired girl and pushed her against Almast. The blonde licked Almast’s face clean and then the sultan discarded her, before taking the now-spotless Almast and cradling in her arms as he drifted off to sleep, his head resting on the breasts of her companion.

And as he did, Shavarsh’s vision faded into opaque again.

But the stiffness in his member did not fade away.

And there was no one to lick away the tears that soaked his face under the skin of his carrier suit.


Chapter 3

And so the days became weeks and the weeks became months and the months became years and for Almast being a human pillow became normal.

Well almost.

She still thought back to the days when she was fully-limbed and could walk and run around, but the memories grew hazier and the reality of being totally dependent on others for everything became more normalised. In her dreams she sometimes walked through the streets or even copulated with a man on a bed of satin sheets, but most of the time her nights were dreamless or the copulations involved her being taken as a torso.

The same could not be said of Shavarsh. Following that night when he was given the honour of watching the sultan use one of his personal pillow teams, intense dreams filled his sleep. Every night, the moment he closed his eyes, he would see those limbless girls, those pillows of perfection, eager and ready, waiting for satisfaction. And in his dreams it was he, not the sultan, who was doing the satisfying. He would hold them in his arms, lower them lovingly on his cock, or cradle them as he drifted of to sleep. His fingers would trace their chests and his lips would meet theirs with passion. Unlike the sultan, he never relegated one to the status of a headrest and unlike the sultan he always shared his glasses of water with them.

And unlike the sultan, he never erupted all over the face of one of them, but instead would let his warm seed gush into the womb of Almast, filling her and pleasing her.

And then he would wake-up to the blurry darkness and the reality of his life as a carrier would cause him to weep whilst his member strained for that release that could never come.

All was not so bad though, for though they could never join as Shavarsh wished, he did experience Almast pressed against him every day and hear her voice lovingly whispering into his ear. She was a kind mistress. She never chastised him if he made a mistake and always thanked him at the end of the day. And during those long periods when, clad in a hot and heavy burqa, she had to watch some dull entertainment provided for the sultan (and then, invariably, him rape that entertainment for an encore) she would start a conversation with her carrier. She would whisper to him her secrets, her hopes and desires. Through those monologues, he learned that Shushan originally came from Europe and had been spotted by the sultan when he had been on a visit to Copenhagen on business. So smitten was he with her, that he’d ordered his secret police to follow her and then kidnap her before subjecting her to the honour of reduction and taking her in his bed. Her name had been Susan – or Suzie – then, but she had been renamed in Hayastani fashion and now she struggled to think of her old self. Susan was Danish and a sports-loving athlete. Shushan was a Hayastani pillow who was honoured to serve the sultan. Things were easier that way.

Patil was also not her an original name. She came from the high mountains of the Caucasus and so was renamed Patil – snowflake – because the snows lay heavy there for six months of the year. She had been engaged to a boy in her village whom she loved very much before she had caught the eye of the palace scout. She often wondered what happened to that boy and had come up with a theory – crazy in Almast’s mind – that her carrier was in fact, that boy. ‘He seems to understand me and love me; it must be him’ she had told Almast one night.

“I wish I too had had a boy that I loved and that loved me,” Almast had whispered to Shavarsh, “but, alas, my upbringing was too sheltered and protected. I saw very few boys, aside from my brothers and father of course. There was one though, a servant name Shavarsh. He used to look at me in the evenings in the garden. I thought that I didn’t know he was there, but I did. I could have told my father of course, but I did not. Dad would have beaten him soundly and banished him from the house, but I didn’t want that. You see, I rather liked him too and I used to dream about a life with him as a free peasant girl, away from all the restraints of society. In fact, at night when I dream, sometimes the man that I imagine myself lying with is him. In my dreams I am fully-limbed and I entwine my arms and legs with his and we become one. It is a beautiful dream, so much nicer than the time I spend in bed with the sultan who only cares for his own pleasure – do you know what, he has only used my holes twice in the last six months and I am so desperate for release! – but incredibly naughty. But it will never be! Ahh me! Ahh my!”

No, it never could, for that Almast was gone. Her arms and legs had been removed and then, soon afterwards, her name too, with the sultan rechristening her Lusnka – moonlight – because it was in the moonlight that he had first seen her and taken her. Almast was gone, forgotten and forsaken by everyone save her carrier who cherished her in his heart and prayed for her every day.

And although she did not know the identity of the thing that transported her around daily, she too grew fond of him, for she sensed that he wished to please her and was gentle in his movements. Indeed, on more than one occasion, while lying alone in her bed at night, she mulled over Patil’s theory of her carrier being her former beloved, before casting it from her mind. After all, she had never had a real lover; that boy in the gardens was probably married and a father by now and had forgotten that she ever existed.

And so things continued for twelve years.

Long before it happened, Almast knew that it was coming. She may have been devoid of arms and legs, but her eyes and ears still functioned perfectly, not to mention her other senses. She had seen how Patil had started to age and then, one day, how she left the team, to be replaced by a new girl who was barely sixteen. Then, a year later, the same happened with Shushan. Her two closest friends gone, she never felt happy working with the two younger girls, even though they were both sweet and lovely. Time was ticking by and soon the clock would strike for her too.

When Patil had left, they’d had a little party for her. The pillows had gathered in a circle and, as a rare treat, were fed wine and fine morsels by their maids while music played. It had been marvellous fun and had made Almast long to be fully-limbed once again so she could have danced to the lively tunes. Then Patil was fastened onto her carrier, a fine white burqa draped over her, and led away to her new life.

The burqa had been white because the sultan, pleased with the years of service that she had rendered him, had deigned, in his infinite kindness, to find her a husband with whom she could live out the rest of her days and bear children. Almast had wondered just what sort of man would want a reduced torso as a spouse, but then remembered how much the sultan himself, the finest of all men, loved limbless ladies, and figured that the honour of marrying a girl who had coupled with the sultan would be great indeed. No hints though, were ever given as to who he was. Patil was not even told a name. She was just informed that he was waiting and that was that.

And so too had it been with Shushan.

And so too was it today with her.

“The sultan wishes to reward the pillow Lusnka for the countless hours of pleasure that she has rendered him,” read out the maid in a very formal voice to the assembled pillows. Almast smiled inwardly. Over the last year or more, those hours of pleasure had grown noticeably fewer and fewer. These days she was rarely called to the honour of embracing him or engulfing his tool in her mouth, let alone having her intimate channels used. The younger girls always got those honours nowadays whilst she was relegated to the honour of cushioning his head as he received pleasure and then slept. And looking in the mirror, she understood why. Her sheen and sparkle had faded and wrinkles were appearing around her eyes. He was no longer attracted to her.

“In his infinite kindness and generosity, our Gracious Lord and Master has located a husband for you. You shall be wed next Wednesday and then will start life afresh as a married woman. On Tuesday he has graciously agreed to fund a leaving party for you to celebrate your coming nuptials with your sister pillows.”

And so it was that today her head was dizzy with wine while a white burqa was lowered over her head before she tearfully left the pillows who had been her sisters and friends for all of her adult life.

Wearing her wedding burqa she was carried on a cushion by her maid out of the room. She could not tell where she was going because the burqa incorporated a piece of cloth behind the grille which blinded her completely. In a white haze she merely travelled, leaning against the chest of the maid who carried her. She wondered why her carrier was not being used but then wondered if he had not been transferred to another pillow now. After all, since she no longer served the sultan, did she deserve such an honour? The thought of never seeing her carrier again saddened her and tears fell from her eyes. Despite the fact that it could never speak to her and she could never see it, all those years of being pressed against it, their two bodies acting as one, she the eyes and ears, it the legs, had caused her to have great affection for it. Many’s the time when she’d wondered what it had been like when it was human, what the man had looked like, and what he was called. She would never know, of course.

Almast felt herself being placed down on the seat of a car. A strap when across her chest to secure her and then the engine started. She hadn’t been in a car – or indeed, out of the palace – for years, and she found it all extremely exciting. She wished that she could see out of the window at the passing world.

They drove for an indeterminate length of time and then the car stopped and she was unfastened and carried out. Again, the maid walked her for a while and then she felt herself being set down again. Then the burqa was removed.

She was in a bedchamber. Far humbler than the one that she had slept in whilst living in the palace, and a world away from the regal chamber where the sultan had taken her and the other pillows after nightfall. But it was still a pleasant, well-appointed room, with a double bed and beautiful tapestries on the walls. It also had a dressing table. Her maid carried her to this and braided her hair, reapplied her make-up and then doused her in pleasing scents. Then she was carried onto the bed and lain there. The maid left and she waited for her husband.

After a few minutes, the door opened but, to Almast’s astonishment, no husband entered and instead, in walked her carrier. Overjoyed to see it again, she cried happily, “You’re here! I so feared we would never be together again!” Then she stopped and a frown crossed her face. “But you should leave,” she said gravely. “I am waiting for my husband here and if you are found in my bedchamber there might be trouble. Go now!”

But the carrier did not go.

Almast realised that it probably could not hear her as they were not connected. “You can’t hear me, but go! I don’t want you to be in trouble, darling carrier!”

Again, it did not go. Instead it shook its head and walked towards her.

“You can hear me?” she asked, surprised.

It nodded.

“Then why don’t you go? I’m waiting for my husband! You’ll get in trouble!”

Then, to her shock and amazement, the carrier walked over to the dressing table and picked up a notepad and pen that were lying there. This was the first time that Almast had ever seen it allowed free use of its hands. Normally, they were chained together (usually behind, occasionally in front) and encased in padded mitts. Today they were free. In shaky writing as if not used to holding a pen, the carrier wrote:


Almast read, stunned. This thing, more animal than human, was her spouse! It was horrible and yet, at the same time, it had been human once before. Indeed, it still was human, save for a crooked spine and being encased in a suit. Or was it? Instinctively she looked down. Where previously there had always been a sealed cover, a very human male tool sprang up menacingly.

“You truly are my husband!” she said with a gasp.

It – he – wrote again.


Shavarsh… Shavarsh… where had she heard that name before? Then the penny dropped. Shavarsh was the name of that servant boy who had adored her and spied on her. “Shavarsh who was a servant in my father’s house? Shavarsh who peeped on me in the garden?”

He nodded and wrote again.


She looked at his modified form and then remembered what had been done to her. She remembered his youthful adoration and remembered her own. She remembered the years when he had served her faithfully, anonymously, and remembered her own closeness to him. She gazed at his rock-hard tool and remembered her own need for fulfillment.

“Of course I can! There is no one I could love more.”

And with those words he walked over and joined her on the bed.



Ten years later

The sky is still dark and the world is sleeping. Onto the terrace comes a shadowy shape, a grotesque, deformed creature like something one may read about in a children’s tale. You, the onlooker are shocked, but that surprise only increases when the creature’s arms reach out and then lift the head and torso from its own body! Then you realise, with morbid fascination: this is not one being but two, a fully-limbed human with a curiously-deformed spine and a limbless torso.

It is Shavarsh and his beloved wife Almast.

He carefully places her down on the chair and then sits beside her. Together, noiselessly, they wait as they do every morning while their children sleep soundly in their beds.

Then, slowly, a slivver of sun appears and the fingers of dawn creep across the horizon. The new day has arrived. Shavarsh hugs his wife with silent joy; a wife who can never hug him back and will never see his face nor hear his voice. It does not matter though. They are together forever.

His youthful prayers have been answered.